Mama, Where Are You From?

"Mama, Where Are You From?"

I am from the hot, red-clay stained sidewalk to the cool, dark quiet of the vestibule.

Listening to the "click" of women's sunday high heels and the "clomp" of men's freshly polished wing-tips.

I'm from quiet reverance; surrounded by the deep, dark wood of empty pews where the congregation once stood.

I'm from the back of the church, the secret passages and hallways, where the choir learns the hymns and the pipes of the organ can actually be seen.

I'm from sunday covered dish and week long revivals, fried chicken, "real" macaroni and cheese, mysterious-delicious casseroles and buckets of sweet tea.

I'm from the quarter my grandaddy gave me for the offering plate,

the bell beneath my many layered organza sunday dress,

warm colorful light streaming through stained glass,

and my granny reminding me to always remember who I am.