Kyurah Coleman

Quite often, daily, maybe too often, I feel that my heart has been touched. It flutters when I see a couple holding hands, when I think about my grandparents, when a baby on the subway smiles at me, or when I wake up sometimes. Yes, I get anfey, but more than often, I am present at the present. If roll was being called, I’d be a big ole “HERE!”

So when I walk past the discarded things of a person who has been evitcted, or through some unknown circumstance has left intimate items behind I get a little upset. I get particularly riled up when they are the things of someone’s childhood. You know, the things that helped make a girl’s life happier.

In the pile of discarded life, I found pictures of a family or maybe a class trip to Disney World. I found tons of half used workbooks– I’m pretty certain she tolerated school; she just scrawled through.
However, I think she loved reading and her family didn’t mind indulging that. There were so many leveled readers for little African American girls. Sure, Roll of Thunder, Here my Cry is sappy its dark skinned girl with cocoa puffs on the cover but there other books I hadn’t heard of in the pile.
I found a notebook with the neighborhood school that Kyurah went to, it’s right around the block, but is it rude that I want to keep the books but take back her pictures and some of the dolls I scavenged? I also wonder would it be inappropriate or painful, like ripping a scab off a wound of a baby.
I just don’t know.

-Chester Kent

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