Shades of White

Nana's hands were like my Sunday best—
an ivory kerchief and a blue pocket square;
she used to knit me sweaters,
but the spaces between her knuckles
closed in and made her ache.
Her hands vibrated like the cell phones
she refused to use.

Dad said she was a hassle
and it was costing more to keep her alive
than it would to pay for a funeral-
but I couldn't bear to picture her
ivory skin against ebony caskets
so I hired myself to love her.

She sat at her vanity,
spine ramrod straight
from years of choir
and tight corsets,
and told me stories
of her schoolyard days
as I braided Mother of Pearl
and white feathers
through her hair.

"Jeremiah,"
she'd whisper,
her voice satin
as the pads of my fingers
stroked the folds
of her blouse,
"don't let the world change you.
Stay white--
promise me."

I promised her,
knowing part of me was already blemished
it'd break her heart to know
though I didn't regret the quenching of my curiosity.

I learned a lot darkening the white:
what I need, and what I can't stand.
I learned to speak up for myself,
and the importance of communication.
I learned from her the importance of value
I place in myself.