A Short Story : A Story?

Decent Essays
“Good morning, baby,” Mama nudged me, as I layed and squinted at my blinds from my warm, baby blue sheets. “Good morning, Mama.” Her face glistened in the streams of sun peeking through the blinds. I looked a lot like her. Same button nose. Same brown but delicate cheekbones. “What’s the day, Mama?” “March 5th, lovely. C’mon, get ready now,” she said smoothly. The sweet morning silence filled the house while Mama decided to pick out my denim jeans and black shirt. I made my bed, but the silence absorbed the house a little too much. “Where’s Papa?” I asked. “He left early,” Mama replied, folding up my clothes neatly. “He went to your uncle Caleb’s early this morning.” “How’d he get up so early? He was out the whole day yesterday.” “I think he’s just having one of his little episodes.” For the past week, Papa had been nagging about the system, but it was no surprise that a majority of the negroes were too. They’ve been targets in our town of Selma as long as I can remember. Of course, I might not have understood why Mama and I had to sit in the back of the bus, or why we had to go to those stinky public restrooms almost a block away from the main downtown. Regardless, I always had to stay by the side of Mama or Papa. But we were never safe. Now the voting system wasn’t safe. Papa’s been up way past my bedtime. He’s been in the lounge talking to his mates, including Uncle Caleb quietly; sometimes I catch them saying words like, “assessment score” or “government employee.
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