Serenity Sunday: The Ninth Month

september blog

I’ve been thinking a lot about September. How summer slowly retreats and my earth-toned cardigans make their grand debut. How we set agreements with our alarm clocks and the children get settled into their daily routines. Pumpkins appear in produce sections and on menu items in coffee shops and bakeries. We see fall foliage and harvest decor in store fronts and start considering ways to liven up our homes. From my porch, I can hear the announcer at the high school football game. A spicy sweet aroma fills the air and vows to stick around for four whole months. Sapphire evenings invade my sunroof top giving way to cozy car dates and jam sessions…

Ba de ya– say do you remember
Ba de ya– dancing in September
Ba de ya– never was a cloudy day

Ninth month, I am enamored by you. Yet, when you arrive, I am struck by your revolutionary power. I can’t help but think of you in another light– one that falls like a meteorite giving way to world cataclysm. I think of you and I accept that I wasn’t there…but I was there…we were all there. I think of you, September, and I think of explosive realities.

I think of lace gloves and ruffled dresses.

I think of business suits and civil service uniforms.

Drywall hurricanes and stained glass blizzards.

Twisted steel and burning bricks.

A steeple and a skyscraper.

Computers crashing and pews pleading.

Smoke billowing and plastic burning.

Shattered dreams and weeping mothers.

I think of wedding rings and church shoes being sifted out of debris.

I think of innocence covered in rubble.

Black people.

White people.

Gray people.

grap people

4 little girls

I think of four little black girls attending Sunday School at 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, on September 15, 1963.

I think of a man falling from the north tower of the World Trade Center in New York City, on September 11, 2001.

And suddenly, the charming, rustic leaves burst into atomic orange flames. Black smoke bleeds into that sapphire sky and what was romantic becomes grainy, eerie, and vastly numbing. Going down sweet, leaving a bitter aftertaste. I find myself looking back on these historical events while radically holding on to the harvest ahead. I remind myself to have courage in this new season. I remind myself to cling to hope no matter what. I remind myself to be born over and over again and not let hate win. I remind myself to allow room for love. And I continue to jam to that soulful, comforting melody sung by Earth, Wind, and Fire…

My thoughts are with you
Holding hands with your heart to see you
Only blue talk and love,
Remember how we knew love was here to stay
*Historical photo credit: Latimes.com and JetMag.com.
Clinnesha D. Sibley is an award-winning playwright and published poet/essayist. She is the Literary Arts Instructor at Mississippi School of the Arts in Brookhaven, MS. For more information, please visit: http://onepagerapp.com/clinneshadsibley. 

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