an orphan (one in a sporadic series)

From time to time, ideas come to me...lines, snippets of dialogue, even whole scenes...that have nothing to do with whatever I'm working on at the time. Sometimes these random writings are incorporated into full-blown pieces...and sometimes they remain as orphans, tantalizing teasers from the fickle muse that have no home. This then is one of the orphans which has been languishing in a file since it was born. The following was once the prologue to a semi-autobiographical novel...with the working title of Soul Deep... I've started several times. It is not in the current draft but may be restored before all is said and done.

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My childhood was a series of shadows . . . shadows eluded, and shadows climbed into and embraced with all the strength one lonely little black boy could muster. Sometimes I thought the whole world was lost in shadows.

I used to imagine, in the way that only children can imagine, that the whole world revolved around me. Of course, I know all too well that it didn't . . . but that didn't stop me from wondering if (and indeed how) people moved and did things when I wasn't around to see them. Imagination was one thing I had in abundance.

Imagination . . . and memories.

One of my earliest memories is, almost as a matter of course, a painful one. It was a cold autumn morning; storm clouds were gathering ominously overhead. But I didn't care. My daddy was coming to spend the whole day with me. Only me. I was three.

I waited, bundled head to toe, at the gate in front of my mother's little house straining to catch a glimpse of his car coming up the quiet street. The icy breeze cut through me despite the coat and the scarf and the button-down cap Mama made me put on . . . but I didn't care.

Behind me in the doorway, my mother stood fuming silently. Her eyes were filled with hot, stinging tears that threatened to spill out every time I craned my neck at the sound of a car engine only to slump down dejectedly when it wasn't my daddy's car engine.

"Bastard," she hissed as she spun on her heels and stormed toward the telephone. She stopped herself and took a deep breath. She lit a cigarette and made a conscious effort to calm herself before she picked up the phone. My little sister Amanda was sleeping in her room, blissfully unaware of the drama playing out around her.

Mama drew the pungent smoke into her lungs and exhaled it slowly. She dialed the number she wanted and waited. It rang once . . . twice . . . thrice . . . twelve times in all. She dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. He wasn't home. And he wasn't, she was sure, on his way to pick up his son.

I stood at that gate for nearly an hour, crestfallen but hopeful just the same. I waited until the clouds finally opened and the rain began to fall. I turned, my face wet with both raindrops and my own quiet tears, walked back up the walk and up the stairs into the house.

Mama took my coat and scarf and cap and hugged me for what seemed like a million years. She said something about daddy . . . but I don't remember what it was. Amanda started to cry and Mama went to see to her. I went into my bedroom and flopped down onto the bed.

Daddy showed up two days later. He had forgotten. "Sorry 'bout that, boy," he said in that happy-go-lucky way of his.

He chucked my chin and smiled. "Think you can forgive the old man?" he said flashing his most disarming grin.

I nodded. I forgave him. But I never forgot the lesson he taught me on that cold, autumn morning.

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