Glory Day

(This was not the EW photo I used as a prompt, but she is gorgeous. Yemaya, through and through. I could not find the prompting photo.)

Big bull of a woman stopped cold. The wall came down, misery in the sopping wet. Long hot Farish Street afternoon and all the gods most punctual. Fate came down the streets and closed up all the shops—every damn one. Did she see? You bet she did. Saw the wings of the women fly by to Wednesday, saw the ever-living Son of Man as he thumped down the street in his green Cadillac—no convertible this, just an old heap shot to hell by life and longing and pure and utter disarray. The day met her—black bull stopped dead in her tracks.

“Three days,” she thought, the words bubbling away into soapy nothingness. “Three days, and I ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Ophelia and her pretty hands and pretty white angel-wing dress, and what is this ‘you see me, sister—three days and all will be well. Weren’t just the good blessed Lord in his glory: it’s all of us. You watch: wait and see. That boy’ll be shinin’ next time you see him.’”

Brother Jim the dog rounded from sleep, seemed he caught something in the dead air. The cat might have already been dead: on its back, head crooked, tiny pink wedge of tongue peeking through the furry mask.

Phoenix listened to the metal tick and pop of the tubs and the tin roof overhead. Listened to her fast-beating heart in a body left for dead. Felt the wave of her boy’s spirit as he flew on down the lane.

“Times is dark. Ain’t a word of God flyin.’”