When I was young, I wondered where I would find my home. Was it in the nocturnal haunts of Harlem? London? The French Riviera? Paris? For years I chased the music, thinking anywhere I could sing could be my home, but I was wrong. Home is not a song, and it’s not a place. It’s people. It’s community. It’s the bond of blood and the friends we choose. It is that feeling—that knowing you are never alone. I’ve lost those I held dearest—my first love and my last. My daddy and my mama. The friends I laughed and lived alongside, all gone, and still, I’m not alone. Love lingers and I feel them all with me even now. I can almost see Tilda standing at my side, wearing a wicked grin and her rent-red dress. Almost hear Cal’s trumpet, blowing like the Angel Gabriel. Even death cannot steal, even time cannot erase the peace I found in all the people I have known and loved.
The ceremony ends, and after a while, the crowd dwindles until Katherine and I are the only ones left standing on the side of the road.
“I guess we better get on home,” she says, tucking her arm through mine. “It sure is a pretty sign.”
It glows and glints, fired up by the setting sun. The raised text sketches only the briefest of details. That I was born. How I lived, and soon, I guess it will say I died. My memory reads between the lines, fills in the gaps, keeps my secrets, and I am content.
Maybe I didn’t ever gain the fame of that other life, but this little roadside sign in a small Alabama town—it says I was here and it will tell my story.
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