Page 10 of A Taste of Grace

It took years for me to master my thick hair that grew fast and shot from my scalp like a sunburst. My mother began trimming it into its signature round shape when I decided to stop relaxing it and cut it off in college. Once it was “trained,” as my mother would say, the tight coils that were now my signature curled into a round shape that looked like a queen’s crown.

The topic of hair pricked my heart since one of Mama’s final acts was to comb her fingers through mine and tell me howhealthy my jet-black coils were. She wore hers just like mine when she was my age. Because of that, I was never going to dye it when it turned gray. Tears welled up again as I recalled how soft her silver strands were when I brushed my fingers through them a final time.

I wiggled my fingers and examined my hand with my palm down. Mama called my skin peanut butter creamy, the same shade as my Daddy’s—the man who turned any number of heads throughout his life. Mama swore he was the most handsome man she had ever met. The older I got, the more I envied Mama for experiencing that once-in-a-lifetime love that I didn’t see in my future. No one my age was as handsome or generous as my dad.

Nita watched me for several moments before picking up one of the worn menus on our table and handing it to me.

“Let’s order.”

Nita ordered hot black tea and a gluten-free orange scone. I decided on a cup of decaf coffee and a piece of vegetarian quiche. We then settled back into our conversation.

“Your mother sounded lovely,” she said.

“My parents were beautiful, generous people who gave me the best of themselves. They had me in their forties, so I knew early in life they would not see me grow old. Because of that, I have always been something of an old soul. They poured everything they had into me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I suppose. That seriousness forced me to make the best of my time with them.”

Our server brought our order, pausing our conversation. I picked up my cup of coffee and stared into the hot liquid, thinking of the Christmases, birthdays, and countless holidays I’d no longer spend with the two people who loved me most.

“Do you have any regrets?”

I hadn’t thought about that question before.

“I just wish we had more time together. I miss having a loving family.”

The topic of my parents always pulled raw emotions from me. No matter how many healing tools I had in my toolkit, their physical absence felt like salt being poured on an open wound that never healed.

“Your compliment reminded me of them. It’s bittersweet.” My voice lowered as I recalled how fragile my mother was on her deathbed.

Her muscles atrophied, but her spirit never dulled. That was how I wanted to remember her.

“My parents are gone too. It’s been twenty years, but it feels like yesterday. That’s why we need to stick together.” Nita reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“But you don’t know me.”

Nita grinned.

“I do. You radiate light. Your ancestors’ prayers precede you.” Nita’s fiery voice rose and fell as she continued. “The devil thought he had you, but no weapon formed against you willeverprosper.”

When she recited my mother’s favorite scripture, chills ran down my spine.

“You’re never alone.” She squeezed lemon juice from a thin lemon wedge into her steaming hot cup of tea.

I closed my eyes for a moment and thought about Nita’s words. They were the same one Dr. Westmoreland spoke over me in rehab.

“As an introvert, I’ve kept my circle tight. Some might say I’m lonely, but I call it selective.”

Nita chuckled.

“I can relate.”

At what had to be almost seventy, Nita wasn’t messy. I had no doubt I could trust her with my business. She placed her slightly wrinkled hand over mine.

“We’re going to get along just fine. I’ll introduce you to some people so you won’t feel so alone. You good with that?”

I nodded, pleased to meet someone with such sincerity.

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