It's All About The Moon When The Sun Ain't Shining Read Free

say?”
    â€œNothing,” I said.
    She looked at me hard, menacingly.
    â€œBoy! As long as you still got what little sense the good Lord gave you, don’t you ever raise your voice to me ... You hear?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I said. I averted my eyes submissively. Suddenly I was a one-year-old child instead of a twenty-year-old man.
    â€œDamn,” I heard Omenita say underneath her breath, and when she did I saw Mama whirl and look at her. Mama’s lips were pursed, her eyes narrowed, and her forehead frowned.
    â€œWatch your mouth, missy,” she said. “This ain’t no bar room.”
    I saw Omenita’s eyes begin to water. Then I saw Omenita’s head turn until her sad brown eyes were cast longingly upon my face. And for a brief moment, she looked at me and I looked at her. Then her lips parted.
    â€œI think I better go,” she said.
    â€œNo!” I said. “You don’t have to.”
    â€œMaybe that would be best,” Mama said.
    â€œMama!” I said, shocked.
    Omenita turned to leave. I followed her.

Chapter Two
    B y the time I reached the front door, Omenita had already made it outside. And from the doorway, I saw her walking toward the large oak tree just beyond the house and just short of the highway. And I thought that maybe she was going to sit in the swing that Daddy and I had hung from one of the branches but instead she paused in the shadows, and her back was to me, and her tall, slender frame was pointing out toward the darkness, and the moon was bright and the stars were shining. I liked the way she looked basking in the light of the moon. And I liked the look of the soft, subtle glow of the dim light cascading off her long, lustrous hair. And I liked the way her dress was hugging her tiny, delicate waist, and the way it hung off her shoulders and the way it fell down her back and clung to her butt and stopped midway along her full, shapely thighs. And as I looked at her, I wondered why things had to be so difficult between the two of them. Why all the tension? Why all the stress? Why all the strain?
    I discretely watched her for a moment, then I stepped out onto the stoop and closed the door behind me. I eased next to her, and when I was close, I slipped my hand about her waist, and my head, like hers, was locked forward. And as I stood beside her, purposely giving her time to collect herself, I could not help but notice that there was a still quietness about and that the night air was filled with the smell of freshly cut grass and that in the distance I could hear the steady hum of rubber tires on the smooth asphalt highway just beyond the yard. As my eyes strayed across the street and beyond the old railroad track, I could see the red glare of the end of a cigarette, and though I could not see the person’s face, I knew that someone was sitting on the porch, cloaked in darkness, enjoying the peaceful solitude of a soothing smoke.
    And along that street, beyond the tracks, I could see rows of old houses, shacks really, all different, yet all the same. And all following the contours of the street winding unceremoniously through the quaint, depressed, black neighborhood with which I was all too familiar. As I gazed out upon the horizon, I was anxious to talk to Omenita, but she was still angry, and when she was angry she was meanspirited, and somewhere deep inside of me a wiser voice cautioned patience, so I remained silent, waiting for some sign from her that she was ready to speak calmly about that which had just transpired. I was secretly afraid that when she did decide to speak, I would not like what she had to say. I would not like it at all.
    A moment or two passed and when she remained speechless, I decided, against better judgment, and spoke first.
    â€œYou okay?” I asked, then waited.
    She pulled away, ever so slightly, and turned toward me, but she was not looking at me. She was looking at her car, which was sitting in