Three days later, in Atlanta, Georgia...
I said nothing as I walked into my assigned room. I still felt the need, though, to clutch my handbag since leaving Harlem. I needed to claim something of my own for I refuse to accept this will be my living quarters. I clutched my handbag even tighter as I looked around. The room had the scent of cherries and the sour smell of lemons. I saw the neatly fitted white bedspread on the bed with frills of pink string around the decorated white pillows. Beside the bed was a round table with a white lace tablecloth on top and a pitcher filled with lemonade and floating cherries with such fullness of life. I didn't feel like exploring why the two extremes were even thought of to be mixed together.
There were also two matching glasses next to the pitcher that is singing to me to pour myself a glass. I instead rolled my eyes in protest for I wished not to settle down and be comfy. I then noticed the only brown rug in the middle of the room seemed to urge me to walk on it. I did, clutching my handbag, still refusing to let this room, this house, and this city to embrace me as my new home.
A hand-painted picture of an unfamiliar black woman is on the opposite wall of the only window. I trailed the lines on her face as a cool breeze came in that seemed too wipe the forming tear away from my eyes. I slowly walked over to the window. I could hear someone talking with a northern accent coming from the streets; that only made me miss Harlem even more.
I saw Josie caring on a conversation with a tall black man as two others were gathering my belongings from the back of the car. I wanted to scream but I was too tired to speak, too tired to continue to cry and too darn tired of being told what to do. The memory of Josie calling after me to go ahead and wash up, go ahead, chile, and then come down to meet everybody else, go ahead, chile, make yourself at home. I clenched my handbag for I wanted to hit something with it. I managed to release a breath of frustration instead but the need to scream continued on begging me for freedom.
I noticed the street down below as a wide dirt road separating the several similar houses like Josie's. They all had that old musty gray theme with some providing a contrasting color to give some distinct appearances. Trees were everywhere as well as flowers blooming in their front yard. I could feel my heart race for missing the smell of Harlem - the nightlife experience had a aroma of sweet roses that sent a warm electric explosion through your mind, body, and soul in which the aroma evaporated from your pores and returned to embrace you with love.
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