Aunt Tom’s couch, covered in plastic
Stuck to my legs, when I sat.
Don’t touch me!
The hard expanse seemed to scream
And I didn’t want to.

Deep lines etched Aunt Tom’s face
Her body was soft, but solid,
Words were sparse, but the grey eyes held love.
Mama says, “My mother and all her sisters,
Bought homes with money earned
Cleaning houses for white folks.”

I know where Aunt Tom worked.
I went along a time or two.
I remember the long bumpy ride on the city bus
To places where houses loomed large
And lawns were green and rolled out grandly.
Like lush carpeting for walking on without shoes.
I don’t remember the ‘Miss whoever or other’
The work was being done for
But once there was a small poodle who yapped at my feet.
My auntie had no dog.
Guess she was too busy for a pet.
Riding from one side of town to the other

It was late when we returned to her house
Located on Paris Avenue in Indianapolis,
With the bathroom in the basement
And the tables crowded with small objects
And the gold brocade couch
Covered in plastic.
Don’t touch, her house screamed!
And, I didn’t even when I wanted to.

At night I lay watching the glowing orange tip
of the Lucky Strike cigarette,
She held between two fingers.
Pressing the filter-less butt cold into the ashtray,
Before sliding between smooth white sheets stretched taut on the bed
“Good night, Cher-Cher,” she’d say.
I don’t remember that she touched me.
It was almost as though I was covered.
In plastic.

©Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

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