Family on my daddy’s side, call me little Mike – everybody except him. The reason would elude me for a number of years. And although I cannot say why I never noticed it before, I can say that this oversight would later in life prove impactful for me. I was constantly being put in close proximity of a man who refused to acknowledge me, which would eventually cause me to unravel. But that’s another story. This tale lends itself to the origin of another unmentionable, that which develops in the mind of the unattended, how false personas are born.
At six-one, my father was a very handsome man. I say “was”, not because he has passed away, but because external beauty is the least of sights. All the Thomas men were good looking, and most came high yellow with freckles. My daddy was the darkest of my grandma’s children, and he, like my grandpa, wore a burnt red Cherokee tone. My mother on the other hand, never made five feet. But, just like my father, she too was the darkest of her siblings, the exception being her dark ebony skin coat.
At five-nine, I seem to have broken even on the attributes. I carry my father’s features, both his laugh, and his swag. But I have my mama’s skin tone, her personality, and her fight. It is quite a mix, and though I did eventually find balance, it cost me more than my share of confusion.
For as long as I can remember, I have spent my summers at my grandma’s. It was a place that looked normal enough. It came with a two-parent household, they were middle class, and they put their kids through college. It was the American dream; at least to me. They lived well and seemed to have a knack for achieving things that they wanted, a lifestyle I would come to chase, and one expensive in price.
My grandma’s name was Onie, and my grandpa’s, George. I can’t really say when their thing went south or if it was ever north. I only know that by the time I got there, they had nothing but fake-smiles-and-hugs for each other.
During the summer I would climb up in my grandpa’s truck, and we would go to Louie Lee Market. He would purchase me a Nesbitt Soda and a bag of Laura Shudder’s Potato Chips, then he would say, “Now little Mike, your grandpa’s business is your grandpa’s business. You understand that?” I’d nod my head, and he’d give my soda and chips. The whole play seemed simple enough. But here’s the thing; whenever I’d climb up in my grandma’s old Plymouth Dodge, she’d say and do almost the exact same. We’d go to Louie Lee Market, and afterwards she’d say, “Look here Boy, you don’t repeat places we go…you hear me?” I’d nod the same way I did for grandpa, and she’d give me the same two items: a Nesbitt Soda and a bag of Laura Scudder’s Potato Chips.
So, now I am way past grown with grandchildren of my own, and I cannot help but wonder, “Did my grandparents teach their children the same art of secret keeping that they taught to me?” And if so, could that have played a part in my father’s over all reluctance to be responsible? Is it part of those unmentionables, and what made me the newest breakable part.
Ms. Crain’s Fly-Away-Birds
By Michael Larue Thomas
Deep within a rockless quarry
where picks no longer swing
there sits da beauty of a Crain
In care of injured wings
Each one designed for spend of time
on ground instead of air
where colors can lose their flourish
If nurtured without care
It’s there you’ll find a well poised Crain
who tends with mended word
to broken songs long left alone
attached to fly-away-birds
A patient place-well timed with space
in tune with intimacy
what’s felt and heard-through spoken word
da mend of wounded things
Now one by one they speak in song
enhancing style of word
their beautiful pain-what lights da way
for Ms. Crain’s fly-away-birds
Da Counselor
By Michael Larue Thomas
Forms of warm endearment-blurred
what once would offer teach
resolves to call me its Counselor
Almond eyes that used to slur
da softness within my reach
forms of warm endearment-blurred
Foolish notions of closeness-heard
a mend of what’s been breached
resolves to call me its Counselor
Once a place where desire-churned
remains contained without leak
forms of warm endearment-blurred
No longer a wonder of what’s preferred
best wishes now buried beneath
resolves to call me its Counselor
A love in like- last mix of stir
far distant from its peak
forms of warm endearment-blurred
resolves to call me its Counselor
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