The Community

by N. Jamiyla Chisholm

I didn’t know why, but I was afraid of these silent women. They felt different from the ancient aunts Ummi took me to for day visits, who practiced the words “french fry” with me until I got them right, even though I had more teeth in my head than they had in theirs. My young, their old, my matriarchs entertained me through sometimes mumbled, toothless stories of fights with ex-husbands and ungrateful children. I was at home among those older versions of myself who removed all masks and waved off sobriety once together. In the Community, however, there were no howling elder women who wore their hair in huge puffs or with sleek middle parts and who dangled cigarettes from their mouths while they swirled dark liquid in a glass of ice held haphazardly in a delicate hand. In this Community, there were no toys, no noise, no color.