A Photograph Taken In Flint Michigan
It’s one of my sister, the oldest one,
when she graduated from nursing school.
I remember when we took her there.
It was before there were expressways
and the trip took a whole day.
We came home that night
in a ‘52 Chevy with a leaking hose.
We had to stop every few miles
to fill the radiator from a two gallon pail.
She was enough older to have memories of the war,
stories of scrap metal drives, ration books
with their special stamps,
neighbors returning home.
After she graduated, the woman across the street,
the homeliest woman I knew,
asked me if it was true that my sister had married a negro man.
I told her didn’t know but that he was a doctor
and that they lived in Detroit.
I don’t know if my answer satisfied her need for gossip.
I didn’t know much at that age, just that her son
Russell, and I, wanted to be outside
in the vacant lot next to the power station
killing Japs and Krauts with toy guns.