Passing Ships

There are many times that I have reminisced about my best friend from my past. She had a great impact on my life. I wondered where was she, what was she doing, after that last evening, sixty-five years ago, when she drove off with her parents to move to Detroit, Michigan in search of a better life than the one black people were living in the deep south of Georgia. Did she and her family find that prosperous life, did she marry, did she have children, did she become famous and rich, beyond her poor humble exitance, there are some people that do, or if she were alive or dead, did I ever cross her mind. I also wondered if would I ever see her again, and if so, would she remember me or was I someone that she erased from her memory, a long time ago.

Growing up in a small rural town, in the surrogated south on a surrogated street, there were no children of my color to play with. So, when we came home from school my brother and I played together inside of the house until it was time to go to bed and get up the next morning to attend school for colored children.

My best friend was a skinny black girl, the same age as me. She was allowed to walk alone over a mile from her home to town on the weekends. She would be going to the grocery store for her grandmother. On her way there, she would stop by my house. Not having a sister or someone to play with, other than my brother, impatiently, I would wait every weekend to see her walking down the highway. She always wore a short dress, shoes too big for her feet, and her hair in many braids that bounced with every step that she took. We played marbles, jumped rope, played Jacks, or we just sat in the swing on the front porch and talked about how we could not wait until we were old enough to leave home and move up North where we heard from our mother’s conversations, that black forks could become rich. She didn’t stay long before having to continue on her way to the store so that she could return home, without worrying her grandmother. On her way back from the grocery store, she never stopped by my house. It made me wonder if she walked back home or caught a ride. I never thought to ask her. I only looked forward to seeing my best friend again.

On one weekend, while we played one of our usual games, she informed me that her family was moving away. They would be traveling by train to Detroit, Michigan so that her father could take a job in one of the factories, because he was tired of sharecropping and he wanted a better life for his family. I was very sad and upset to hear that she was leaving but she promised that we would see other again. That was the last time I saw her; the last time we hugged; and the last time we said goodbye. It’s been over sixty-five years and counting.

As my famous cousin, Gladys, wrote in her poem:

“MEMORIES”

God only knows where you are now…

The years have gone and what we

shared yesterday has long since passed.

But I thought of you today…

I remember how we met…

How our spirits touched each other,

And we were bound by the ties of friendship.

So whether you are alive or dead…

Whether I will see you again or not…

Your spirit will always remain in my storehouse of memories…