Inklings 2021

An old man with a blue suit that had turned an unfamiliar brown sat first row as he proudly clapped for his only daughter that had managed to graduate high school. My sister had dropped out junior year three months after the separation to help mother pay the bills by working as a cleaning lady for a white family that lived down the street from the Smiths. My eyes danced around the auditorium, looking for the cleaning lady and “unemployed for eleven years” cook. It didn’t take long to find two light brown specks dressed in fluorescent colors in the back row, fanning themselves with the “Class of ‘97” brochure. I hadn’t noticed we were already back on the road when the image of my mother and sister fanning themselves drifted away. “Well, you were very quiet...we’re almost there anyhow,” Harold said while circling his finger on my thigh. Familiar neighborhoods rushed past us as we drove deeper and deeper into the suburbs of the city. “I hate this place,” I said as I closed the car door behind me. I knew complaining wouldn’t relocate the Buffalo firm where Harold had just been named partner. “This is the one I put an offer on,” Harold said, buttoning his jacket and confidently strutting up the driveway. A beautiful front yard and perfectly proportionate garden welcomed us as I uncomfortably walked behind my husband to a front door that I seemed too familiar with. It had been seven years since I had set foot in the city where quiet winters turned into sticky summers, and the nostalgia of it made me sick. As we anxiously waited for the proud owner of our future home, an old and cold-looking lady opened the door. She had gray slicked back hair and carried a cane that was half her size. She wore a discreet lavender pastel dress, delicate ballerina slippers that wrapped around her heel, and clip-on pearl earrings that longed to be accompanied by a matching necklace. “Look at this beautiful and er- diverse couple! I’m guessing you must be the McKinleys!” she said, shaking my husband’s hand. A condescending laugh subconsciously climbed from my belly and jumped out to the world when the lady described us as “diverse”. I had forgotten how intimidating “diversity” was to neighborhoods that made up Buffalo. Estranged familiarity trickled down my spine as we walked through the front door and onto the wooden floors of our new home. “It’s beautiful!” Harold said as he grabbed my hand and jolted it up. My eyes agreed with him; it was beautiful. But I felt like an unwanted immigrant inside. “The furniture’s...not our style,” I said as I surveyed the living room. A surprising sly smile of agreement appeared on Harold’s face. “My wife and I are a little unsure about the furniture. It’s not really our style,” he said. The honesty that I so loved about my husband apparently didn’t sit well with the old lady. “Well, this would be your home. You can get rid of anything that doesn’t sit right with y’all, but honestly, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my furniture. It’s classic.” she said. “It’s old.” I subconsciously replied.