She liked her coffee black
Black like the curly locks that drape around her head.
Black like the timeless, smooth, skin that hugs her bones.
She was born in the thirties.
And died in the nineties.
She couldn’t get an education, so she made sure her three children did.
She was born in Texas.
And she died in Arizona.
She loved perfume
And sometimes my family say they can smell it lingering through the house.
She was always afraid to drive.
She visited a psychic once who turned out to be accurate in the reading.
She loved jewelry.
She would often wear a big, brown, fur coat when she would go out on the town with grandpa.
She died of breast cancer before the technology was great enough to save her.
She’s a firework, born on New Year’s Eve.
She lived through segregation, women’s oppression, and wars.
And I was given her name.