Maple Syrup

Felt-tip markers profile a youthful driver against a blown out sky. Acceleration and brakes makes life go bye-bye quickly. When do you go and when do you stop? The headliner is a soft canopy over Laurietta King’s black braids collected by a black scrunchie. She remains vigilant in her surroundings on the East Side of Long Beach with slushy air filling the cabin space. The western sun is lowering behind green rolling hills as it lights Pacific Coast Highway’s East-West thoroughfare. It glares at the rear view mirror unafraid of the hot spot. The traffic light says move forward. For the 20th time wallflowers stare at patrons for sport entering Eddie’s Liquor parking lot. The game is on for new recruits to water their roots.

At the speed of light, the flash lights the passenger side like an eastern moon. The rare view of her quiet life receives public attention as a striving single-mother of five. The permanent loss of her son’s life appears as a vigil in the split-second mirror. R.I.P. Mike on her maple syrup skin. Mike poured maple syrup on all his buttery flapjacks. During the long struggle, two hands steer family members and those on the periphery to terms of love and not rioting. Her positive headline lit by meek forgiveness does not do well in the national news media; black fonts on digital white paper. Report manufacteruers pollute our daily breathing like ships flowing in and out of port. Woe to man, the hands of God are still speaking and working. Her response saved an unknown number of youth in the Long Beach, California community.