Memphis

by Tara M. Stringfellow

It was like a predator had suddenly announced its presence in our new safe haven.

Her voice was pure Memphis. It sounded like the gunshot we heard the night before—sharp and yet slow, echoing far into the darkness of that night.

If Memphis were alive, gangs would be both her red and white blood cells—killing and healing and repeating.

Fall in the South meant Midas came down and touched everything. The trees seemed to be made of gold itself. Leaves became copper coins catching in the wind.

The things women do for the sake of their daughters. The things women don’t. The shame of it all.

History had awakened me to the fact that racism is the only food Americans crave.