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Three nineteen again.
“You missed it—a man just got up from his wheelchair and started break-dancing. The seeds cured him!”
219 Maple Street
Long after the injury healed, I found that snorting crushed-up Percs was the right concoction to stop the bedbugs from taking up all the space in my head.
“And when you plant your seeds, you will start seeing miraculous deliverance. Thousands of dollars transfer into your account, cure from disease and sickness . . . those who cannot walk, will walk again once more!”
Three nineteen a.m. Again.
The basement door is wide open.
its warped ancient wood with a hectic pattern of scratches that could’ve only come from fingernails . . . chills me to the bone.
“This is my house,” a voice echoes up from the basement. A woman’s voice, raspy and distinct.
“Alec, you have no idea what these people have been through. You, as a white man, couldn’t possibly imagine.”
It’s a girl’s silhouette, sitting at my desk, on my laptop, backlit by the light in the hallway, her face hidden by shadows.
“Yusef, ‘I have anxiety’ is a full and complete statement. I don’t have to explain the what and why to you!”
“Truth is, the ground is spoiled here, always has been.” He looks at me. “And you can’t grow where you’re not wanted.”
Change is good. Change is not always necessary. But the right change is most definitely needed.
