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61 ’Bama Barbershop After the latest tragedy grief seeks a voice beyond the fields and the barn’s rough weathering so I drove faster, tuned into the “’Bama Hour” on the A.M. My windows rolled down, I could smell tobacco drying; beyond open barn doors, sheaves hung in darkness. Jerry Washington, aka the ’Bama, played five versions of “Stormy Monday” back to back as though he knew what I wanted. Howlin’ Wolf sang The eagle flies on Friday. On Saturday dogs begin to howl. I wandered through the soul’s barrios. Between songs the ’Bama said she’s never coming back. Parker’s Creek Road is a dead end; I drove down it just for fun. I remember as a boy pressing my face against the window of a black barbershop. People inside waved to me like I was a lamb. Their hands were paintbrushes. We’d never appear in any murals. Pee Wee, the barber, said naw, I don’t cut white hair. I wanted to sit in the chair, have him spin me until I was a blur in the mirror. ’Bama, you really took me for a whirl. Sadness and I shared the porch swing. Then I never thought about cutting my hair, fire under my pillow, overflowing the sink. Pee Wee said what will Judge Lamson think if I mess up your head? I sat on boxes of corn liquor behind the chairs and watched him work. He raised the customer’s chin the way some women have pulled my face toward theirs then fled, leaving enough gas money on the bed stand 62 to get from here to the delta. Ask me why the ’Bama’s passing away into light which hovers over the fields, that sound of a bottleneck guitar makes me feel I can never afford another heart break, another trial separation. Mondays are for funerals. We can die on the weekend, and even the black Christ must someday rise. ...

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