When the light still shone from their bedroom past ten o'clock, it meant my mama was still up reading.
Mama's door always stood open at night. 'Cept when company came
and stayed the night.
I would stand in the kitchen looking at her light, the chair backs
at the table standing before it, black slits against the glow.
The light from the stove clock behind me casting my faint shadow on
the walls and refrigerator.
And I would just stand there looking. Not thinking of anything.
Sometimes that light and her reading went on a long time. It's home, Mama's light on at the end of the hall. There. For me.
She's probably the first person who taught me to love stories.
Happy Birthday to my heroine, Mama.