In A Church

Featured In Flurry Magazine’s Upcoming Nostalgia Issue

By: Kira Norwood

Being that I am the youngest daughter of a black man, I know the smell and taste of fear. Being the sister, the youngest sister, of a black boy practically ensures that this anxiety that I hold in my womb and heart will not be going anywhere. Being the sister of a black woman instilled this stillness, this grief, this longing for peace in my soul that no man could ever match or quench. And, to be the youngest daughter of the oldest daughter, born into melanin and glory, pride and strength, I know the feeling of loneliness. It creeps ever so softly into the room, always uninvited, never turned fully away, all are welcomed in my home.

Being that I am a daughter, a sister, and myself, I must show no fear, I must not submit to the anxieties that creep about my bones. The grief will not penetrate my iron like soul. The peace I long for will come, it will come, it has to come. My glory, my melanin, my strength, my pride, my loneliness, my fear, all these things make up this black girl. This big-haired, round-nosed, brown-skinned, long-legged, soft assed, miraculously alive, black girl.

And being that this world is not capable of defining me, I will leave the task up to no one but my creator. The creator of the above and the below, the in-between and the far beyond, the one who is never to be seen or named, only thanked. Never worshipped only appreciated.

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Sit,

Ankles crossed, skirt hangs below the knee, 

Ankles crossed beneath the chair in front of me, 

I stare at the wig on the head of some believer, some auntie meaning to pray, 

meaning to let go of her worries and step into the house of glory on this crisp sunday, 

I reach across my sister, poke my mama and say, “I’m hungry ma, when will we leave?”

She shushes me and looks away. 

I stare at the side of my mother’s face, realize there is no hope for my appetite so I begin to wait. 

All I could do was pray. 

Kira Norwood - @333.kiii