Oh, the sounds of Beale street—music unheard and heard. Intertwined in the brick buildings and smooth, worn, cobble stone streets. What faces has the mighty, life giving Mississippi seen. She flows the same now as she did when I was kid; and the same as when my dad and all the dads and moms before who once stood at her banks gazing silently at the ripples of her wet skin.

However, the mighty Mississippi has changed almost unnoticeably— it is only with a sensitive touch can you perceive the shift in the flow of the river and winged detritus of her depths like all those souls who stood at her edge on Beale street, raised on fried okra, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and pinto beans and rice. They have changed as well.

Those dreams which were dreamt along her curving bank are hers. If they go unused then she reclaims them to give again to new bodies with similar features. I know I’m supposed to be talking about Beale street, however I can’t speak on Beale street without mentioning her. She’s the heart beat of good ole Beale street and without her, perhaps no one would’ve even came and brought their songs, foods, hip lingo, and fashion.

What I carry from Beale street: is the food, the big, black barrelled belly grills that flush the area with the smell of burning hickory wood chips and barbecued meat which each ancestral recipe has been kept in the family for generations.

Black faces, brown faces, white faces and round faces smiling sauce stained grins, as they gather around and eat pulled pork sandwiches, topped with coleslaw— and if they were feeling bold a bit of sweet relish.

I grin now thinking about that moment, what my facial expression must’ve looked like and is my memory accurate remembering how the joy of that time felt or have I perfected the memory removing all of its blemishes and extra fat…maybe, and I’m okay with that, life is full of enough tragedy.

I remembered, we went into one of the biggest and grandest buildings I’d ever been in at the time. The Peabody hotel. It seemed the ceilings went on forever beyond anything my tiny perspective could’ve imagined. And me and the whole family sat at a glass, round table at the top floor overlooking the oceanic lobby area beneath us.

I see my dad smiling without worry, which wasn’t common for many black fathers in the south. Then we ordered some strange drink named Shirley Temple, named after the cute white child actress before I was born. Kind of ironic that a black family was sitting here drinking this drink. Anyway, I remember it had a cherry on top and  I thought this was the pinnacle of life. Could we live like this every day or every weekend? Let’s make it a tradition then I could pass it on to my children and so on.

An ancestral movement.

That would be something to live for.

Now I’m back at Beale street, a grown woman preparing to slip into the Mississippi river; to return my unused dreams.

"Carry me away" I start to hum. It was one of my favorite songs from the three times I went to church as a kid.

I would like to just say I’m sorry to her.

Perhaps the Mississippi will give my story, my song to someone else who will truly live it.

But hopefully not.

Prose Piece, 2022

Oh, the sounds of Beale street—music unheard and heard. Intertwined in the brick buildings and smooth, worn, cobble stone streets. What faces has the mighty, life giving Mississippi seen. She flows the same now as she did when I was kid; and the same as when my dad and all the dads and moms before who once stood at her banks gazing silently at the ripples of her wet skin.

However, the mighty Mississippi has changed almost unnoticeably— it is only with a sensitive touch can you perceive the shift in the flow of the river and winged detritus of her depths like all those souls who stood at her edge on Beale street, raised on fried okra, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and pinto beans and rice. They have changed as well.

Those dreams which were dreamt along her curving bank are hers. If they go unused then she reclaims them to give again to new bodies with similar features. I know I’m supposed to be talking about Beale street, however I can’t speak on Beale street without mentioning her. She’s the heart beat of good ole Beale street and without her, perhaps no one would’ve even came and brought their songs, foods, hip lingo, and fashion.

What I carry from Beale street: is the food, the big, black barrelled belly grills that flush the area with the smell of burning hickory wood chips and barbecued meat which each ancestral recipe has been kept in the family for generations.

Black faces, brown faces,  white faces and round faces smiling sauce stained grins, as they gather around and eat pulled pork sandwiches, topped with coleslaw— and if they were feeling bold a bit of sweet relish.

I grin now thinking about that moment, what my facial expression must’ve looked like and is my memory accurate remembering how the joy of that time felt or have I perfected the memory removing all of its blemishes and extra fat…maybe, and I’m okay with that, life is full of enough tragedy.

I remembered, we went into one of the biggest and grandest buildings I’d ever been in at the time. The Peabody hotel. It seemed the ceilings went on forever beyond anything my tiny perspective could’ve imagined. And me and the whole family sat at a glass, round table at the top floor overlooking the oceanic lobby area beneath us.

I see my dad smiling without worry, which wasn’t common for many black fathers in the south. Then we ordered some strange drink named Shirley Temple, named after the cute white child actress before I was born. Kind of ironic that a black family was sitting here drinking this drink. Anyway, I remember it had a cherry on top and  I thought this was the pinnacle of life. Could we live like this every day or every weekend? Let’s make it a tradition then I could pass it on to my children and so on.

An ancestral movement.

That would be something to live for.

Now I’m back at Beale street, a grown woman preparing to slip into the Mississippi river; to return my unused dreams.

"Carry me away" I start to hum. It was one of my favorite songs from the three times I went to church as a kid.

I would like to just say I’m sorry to her.

Perhaps the Mississippi will give my story, my song to someone else who will truly live it.

But hopefully not.

Prose Piece, 2022