among the persimmons
children of sharecroppers and landowners played.
hula hooping, ball kicking, rhyme clapping.
1960s me – 5-year-old gummy grin
plus a million plaits
tightened by Grandma’s love.
braids sprouting in all directions
like TV antennas signaling children
to Grandpa’s Carolina farm.
brown and beige hands
picked the orange abundance,
tart gifts from the Catawba.
bellies full, skin colors feeling equal,
we huddled in late September,
devouring persimmons
with the squirrels, birds and deer.
one morning, truck drove up.
asking Cousin Junior to hammer at Mr. Creek’s farm.
back of the house, Junior saw clothes lines.
oak poles anchored high
with leaves of hoods and robes.
white cotton waving in the breeze
like flags begging to surrender.
yet prejudice, pride, history prevented it.
pins clamped too insecure to liberate.
“Don’t go there no more.
You’ll get hung too,”
Grandpa told Junior.
“Know your place, Boy.”
our place was under the persimmons.
shaded from grownup cares.
running, hiding, seeking,
laughing together. sharing dreams.
nothing stays more bittersweet
than childhood memories of autumn’s harvest.
spitting seeds of innocence that
God meant to grow strong, ripen,
sweeten the earth.
Eleanor Jones is a children’s author and communications executive. She is African American with Catawba and Monacan native ancestry. Her memoirs and poems deeply connected to the Southeastern United States have appeared in international publications, including Decolonial Passage, Azarão Lit Journal and The Sun. Eleanor’s nonfiction articles have been featured in the AFRO American Newspapers, Essence, and the Washington Post. Find out more on her website jonessummersbooks.com and on Instagram at @eleanorjjjoneswriter.
