Text for Screen Readers

After my high school graduation, Grandma pulled down the ladder to the attic in the middle of our hallway & climbed in a world apart from anything I’d known. Christmas decorations—always the Black ones—because there was a certain religion in having a Black Santa Claus: he was the pastor that made sure Jesus checked his list twice, to weed out those who were naughty during the week, cordial on Wednesdays for Bible Study & without spot or blemish on Sunday morning. She pulled down a royal blue foot locker with gold plated locks & edge protectors. Food & snacks & some toiletries can fit in there & between the ramen & g newtons, slept a tongue scraper. I scraped every sermon o my
tongue: left the nest, melted fresh wax o my wings, dusted them with graphite & eraser shavings to rewrite history & forget all that kept me boxed up for years, in one full gust. To do this in remembrance of me, the boy I once was—who knew First Sundays were meant only for grape juice, pressed from the vine, in one hand & stale wonder in the other.