Beneath Ceilings: Summer of ‘48

“I fell asleep in my makeup again last night,” I said out loud with no interest in a response, but still, he heard me and almost simultaneously appeared behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. As he began pulling me in closer, I allowed my head to fall back onto his shoulder. We swayed back and forth, giggling and examining ourselves in the bathroom mirror while both regretting our poor life decisions made the night prior.  

“you're still beautiful to me”, I felt his voice vibrating inside of me, an ability of his I’ve often cherished. He started to tenderly kiss me, then suddenly without warning, aggressively rubbed his mustache across my neck. It made me shriek, and my body flinched with goosebumps. I affectionately tugged and pushed away at him pretending as if I wanted it all to end. Truth is, I never really did, but staying beyond my limits had always been a fear of mine. And wasting people's time was something I never felt I had the luxury of doing. My body went limp out of playful exhaustion and I could feel his arms tighten around me. I think he liked it when that happened, because it was the only time I allowed myself to be vulnerable around him without guilt. If he had it his way, my story would’ve been much different. One that would have most likely portrayed him as the savior. And though in distress, I was no damsel. He unexpectedly collapsed from the weight of my lifeless body and tried his best to prevent us from falling to the ground. But of course, we did anyways, tumbling over each other and laughing all the way down. There we both laid, adjusting ourselves while we gasped for air as if to recover from an 8-foot fall. He then took a breath, noticeably one that seemed a bit too heavy for the current situation and let out a deep sigh. Though concerning, I knew what thoughts consumed his mind whenever laughter was no longer present. I watched as he slowly pulled himself up and leaned his back against the bathtub which prompted me to reluctantly follow suit. As we sat in silence, steam from the shower began to blanket the atmosphere and revealed old hidden messages we’d write to one another on the shower doors. lost in thought, as if to be swept away in a sea of boundless tragedies, his mind was often the source of his despair. A curse of his I was all too familiar with.  

“Hey.” I leaned in to gently nudge him. 

“Talk to me.” I spoke softly into his ear as I rested my chin on his arm, looking up into his eyes watching as he quietly suffered.  

He’s never been the talkative type, but then again, with me, he’s never had to be. He communicated the best through silence, and over time, with much practice and patience, I was able to read him like a cryptic book. A beautiful language in which only I took the time to understand and one I noticed he had been using a lot more lately.  

He let out another deep sigh, but this time he wrapped his arm around my neck, kissing me on the top of my head in an attempt to dilute the burden he convinced himself he’d been to me. He slightly dropped his head low enough for me to kiss him on his forehead. Although unexpected, he smirked, like a parent would do for a child who was trying to comfort them.  

“How much time do we have left?” I asked already knowing the answer.  

“Not long now.” he responded as he picked himself up off the ground and offered his hands. I placed mine in his and allowed him to guide me upward followed by another tender kiss to my forehead.   

He began to undress and briefly checked the temperature of the water.  

“You coming?” he asked after noticing me pleasantly watching from afar.  

“No, no. you go ahead. I wanna make you breakfast one last time.” I said as my eyes started to swell with tears. He turned to me and placed his hands on my cheeks, holding my head up high, wiping away any escaped tears I tried so hard to keep from him.  

“It won’t be the last time; I will make it back to you.” I wanted to believe every word he spoke at that moment, but his eyes held the truth, and we both knew it was the end. 

“Well, you better make it back Mr. Carter,” I said playfully, 

“Who else is going to eat up all my horrible cooking!?” We both laughed to distract ourselves from reality. 

“Go on now, hop in before you use up enough hot water to last a week.” I said practically shoving him into the shower. 

“Your uniform is ironed and laying across the bed. Breakfast will be ready in 20 minutes, so don’t you be late!” I snarkily said, placing my hand on the bathroom doorknob as I backed out. 

“Yes ma’am!” I heard him call out as the door closed behind me. Standing there, I immediately threw my hands over my mouth to prevent what felt like an internal eruption. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel responsible for something he had no control over, but I couldn’t move. My legs felt like I was standing on sticks, and instantly crumbled beneath me.  

~~~ 

“Ima miss your cookin’” he said as he eagerly scooped up the last bite of his grits and eggs. He was such a simple man, never wanted for more than necessary. I remember the first time he tasted my grits, “SUGAR!?” he roared with such disgust! I didn’t realize a human was capable of making such faces. It always comforted me to think about how far we’ve came since that first bowl of grits, and the thought of losing him was just too painful at the time. I watched from across the table as he cleaned himself off with a napkin and took a quick sip of his morning coffee. Just then, a car horn blew from outside of the house. We looked up at each other but said nothing. Instead, he put his hands out on the table and reached for me. I placed my hands in his and tried my hardest to memorize every callus, every scar, every crease. I closed my eyes briefly, wishing that time would stop so I could live in this moment with him forever. A second horn blared with a bit of impatience this time. He stood up and our hands separated, but it felt more like my soul was being ripped from my body. He grabbed his bag that was packed the night before and swung it around his shoulder, while opening the front door and signaling in the direction of the seemingly annoyed taxi driver. Turning back to look at me once more, he quickly swooped me off my feet in his last attempt to distract us from the inevitable. 

“Please don’t forget me Ada Mae” he whispered in my ear, gripping me tighter than ever before. I hung around his neck knowing that once I let go, I would never be able to touch him again.  

“I will never forget you, Micah Carter.” I softly whispered back. 

  ~~~

“I'm sorry Ms. Mae, what was that?” She always seemed so distant around this time of year, though I never knew why.  

“Oh! Nijah sweetie, you're back to visit an old woman again. You must forgive me; I didn’t hear you come in.”  

She adjusted herself in her rocking chair and subtly puts her hand over an old picture she had sitting in her lap that I've never seen before. I reached down to give her a hug and apologized for my abrupt intrusion.  

“Nonsense” she responds, waving me in the direction of her couch.  

“Where is Bishop?” I noticed her looking over my shoulder, expecting to see her grandson walk through the door at any moment.  

She continued, “I thought he was coming with you this time.”  

I knew the question was coming, but I still didn’t have an answer for her, so instead, I said nothing at all.   

“It’s okay child. I understand your silence, more than you realize.” she said almost hauntingly.   

Though, I wasn’t sure how she possibly could, because at that time, I had been so unsure about my own reality that the possibility of understanding felt like journeys away. But it became evident that she was speaking from personal experiences. I began to set up some bingo cards I found downstairs in the lobby on my way up to her room. I heard her chuckle a bit to herself quietly as she turned to stare out of the window once more.  

“Would you like to hear a story, Nijah?” she asked in such a mysterious tone. I looked up to see her eyes still tethered to the memory her mind often projected in the evening sky. 

I put down the rest of the cards on the table and sat back on the couch as if a child waiting on a bedtime story. She looks down at the photo again before reaching over to hand it to me. It was an old picture of her standing next to a guy I've never seen in any of her photo albums. I turned it over and it read, 

“Micah and Ada, Summer of ‘48”.  

I placed it back down on the coffee table in front of us and responded with such curiosity, 

“I would love to hear a story, Ms. Mae.”