There’s a black and white photograph on the floor:
The woman’s moving in it. She’s beautiful. (Wonder if she knew that then.) She’s young. Maybe 30, maybe 35. (Can’t tell.) She’s earnest. She has an afro that’s not perfectly round or picked out. She has smooth milky-chocolate skin. Kohl rims her eyes. Unlike the girls in the background, she wears her own lashes. Unlike the girls in the background, the hair on her head isn’t a wig. Her nose is round, an in-between shape. Her lips are full and glossed peach.
She’s singing in the frame. Oh, yes dear. Her large orb earrings swing with her movements. She’s swaying from right to left. She’s saying a little prayer with her heart. At work I just take me some time, and all through my coffee break time, I’m saying a little prayer for you; oh, yes, I am.
She’s roundish. Unlike the girls in the background, she’s wearing a loose dress. Maybe, she has another life with her. Maybe, there are more than perfect notes in the pit of her soul.
She’s young here. She knows little, only what she has known. (We know more, don’t we?)