6.
Momma had a strange relationship with her. Most often
when she passed on the road in front of the Store,
she spoke to Momma in that soft yet carrying voice,
"Good day, Mrs. Henderson. "Momma responded
with" How
you, Sister Flowers?"
7.
Mrs. Flowers didn't belong to our church, nor
was she Momma' s familiar. Why on earth did
she insist on calling her Sister Flowers? Shame
made me want to hide my face. Mrs. Flowers
deserved better than to be called Sister. Then, Momma
left out the verb. Why not ask, "How are you,
Mrs. Flowers?" With
the unbalanced passion of the young, I hated
her for showing her ignorance to Mrs. Flowers. It
didn't occur to me for many years that they were as
alike as sisters, separated only by formal education.
8.
Although I was upset, neither of the women was in
the least shaken by what 1 thought an unceremonious
greeting. Mrs. Flowers would continue her easy gait
up the hill to her little bungalow,
and Momma kept on shelling
peas or doing whatever had brought her to the front
porch.
9.
Occasionally, though, Mrs. Flowers would drift off
the road and down to the Store and Momma would say
to me, "Sister, you go on and play. "As
I left I would hear the beginning of an intimate conversation.
Momma persistently using the wrong verb, or none at
all.
10.
"Brother and Sister Wilcox is sho'ly the meanest
--" "Is," Momma? " Is"? Oh,
please, not" is," Momma, for two or more.
But they talked, and from the side of the building
where I waited for the ground to open up and swallow
me, I heard the soft-voiced Mrs. Flowers and the
textured voice of my grandmother merging
and melting. They were interrupted from time to time
by giggles
that must have come from Mrs. Flowers (Momma never
giggled in her life ). Then she was gone.