Five More Minutes

Jerrice J. Baptiste

Five more minutes to be comforted. Tucked under my blanket. I postpone leaving the gentle warmth. My bed always feels cozier when I must join the world in a frenzy.

Five more minutes for my skin to savor. I curl up, then think of my departed kin who worked the land starting before dawn. My grandmother raised children, and cattle. She was on her way to the street market before tint of blueness appeared in sky.

Five more minutes to sink further into softness. Avoiding the black shadow of a noisy city. Each morning, my grandmother greets me bedside. She strokes my forehead. I uncurl. My arms stretching north, toes pointing south.

Five more minutes to recall the scent of Jean Naté on her turquoise Caribbean sun dress. I miss red hibiscus outside her kitchen window. “The oranges will not squeeze themselves, if you want fresh squeeze, ma belle!” Smoothness of her voice and hands on my hair.