charlotte watson sherman

Tales of identity, initiation, spirits, love, and loss spun beneath the Tree of Remembrance.


Cateye


This was sacred ground. And somethin in the land called out to Nathan Honeywood soon as he stepped his broken-soled, heavy brown shoes down from that train.
Somethin liquid and light as air snaked its way from his soles, round his ankles, and up into the muscles of his calves. It wiggled up his thighs and tickled his groin, makin him wanna laugh, but he wouldn't cause he didn't want folks to take no notice of a big black man laughin and holdin his privates. So he let the chuckle stay and started walkin.

And the light liquid thing walked right with him: past the bustle of town, the friendly shouts of merhants, past the fabrics displayed in windows reflectin Nathan's smile, past the smell of hot bread bakin and fresh vegetables spread on tables, and still Nathan walked.
The liquid light rose from his navel and drifted into his chest. Nathan walked by vacant lots and leanin shacks. He hadn't seen this much green since he left Mississippi. And trees! Everywhere he looked there was a tree reachin for the silver sky. And he could smell salt water in the air.

Nathan and the light thing walked till he saw other brown faces with eyes that looked like they knew where he'd been and just how long the road had been to get here.

The thing in him rose into his throat like a thick ball of fog and his eyes watered and he started whisperin, "O way o way, o way, o wayo," even though he didn't know what he was sayin. The thing in the land knew Nathan was home.