She Deserves A Name
An Ode To The Woman Who Changed A Child’s Life
She had a name I do not remember. I remember the sound of her laughter, it rang through the hallway of our apartment complex bringing suggestions of joy that reminded me of distant memories. I remember her smile that brightened the passageways that I hurriedly navigated for fear of who was hanging around the next corner. I remember her skin was a deep ebony that shone a defiant acceptance of herself and those who were around her. I remember the gentle lilt of her accent that held a softness of wisdom belied by her youth. I remember she adorned herself with vibrant tones, the colors of the tropics, that mocked the gray steel of the gated fortress our building created from the chaos outside.
She befriended me, the nine year old across the hall. Her foreignness was fascinating, while not the first black woman I had seen, she was the first to acknowledge me outside of my schoolhouse. She was a nursing student and had an infant child. I have remembered her to have lived alone; if she had a husband, I never noticed. With time, she and my mother, while not fast friends, developed a symbiotic relationship. The brief watching of each other’s children to run to the convenience story was common. Unlike many adults, she really noticed me, or perhaps, she noticed that I noticed her. I remember looking at her and we saw each other. I felt her a…
