this morning, while engaging in my sunday morning ritual, this piece of prose filled my spirit with warmth, love, wordiness and limited punctuation—a reminiscing on sundays as a child. what’s below is just a taste, cos i feel more coming. this was very much so written by the precious of myself. this piece is unedited.
a sunday kinda love chicago style is a righteous blend of gospel radio mornings while getting dressed for church and post-service radio afternoons with Herb Kent and dusties;
a combination of a nourished spirit of earth angels and other worldliness of shouting, thumping and holy dancing mixed with the smoothness of ole skool crooning and the “battle of the best”;
a sunday kinda love after church was a pit stop at jewels or the corner a-rab store to get the final touches for dinner that was mostly prepared the evening before while hair was washed, “no more tangles” applied, scalp greased, hair parted straight with coordinating balls and barrettes wrapped around hands full of thick hair to make fat ponytails;
love-filled, warm-weathered sundays consisted of field trips on the el to “jew town” with an uncle who loved funk and the blues. a trip for the soulfulness of maxwell street onions that stank so good and live blues on crates and an amp. a trip for uncs mix-tapes, knickknacks, toiletries and new thick white socks. . .
to be continued…
my Sunday kinda love as an adult womon, now in my 40s, has evolved, but some aspects of my childhood rituals and sacredness remain.
Happy Black Love Day