Chapter OneAfter months of muggy heat, a cool breeze passes through to say goodbye. It curls around me like a snake, smooth and slow. I clasp the handle of the suitcase by my waist, recounting everything I packed inside like a memory game: clothes and toiletries; a vintage postcard of Georgia, brown around the edges; a photo album; Mom’s faded Bernie Mac tee; and as many books as I could fit inside.
I never paid much attention to the sidewalk, to the way it curves perfectly around the bend. This corner was always a
passing-through place, a nowhere on the way to somewhere. To catch the bus for school, for the clinic, or to meet up with Austin Green. Now this is where I’ll pass from one world to the next.
The phone in my pocket vibrates. I pull it out to read the message from Uncle Rowan: Just a few minutes.
Soon, a sleek black Cadillac pauses at the four-way stop before making a turn and pulling up beside me. The windows are tinted so dark they nearly blend in with the body of the car. The engine cuts off, the door opens, and Uncle Rowan’s shiny brown head emerges from the driver’s side. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, and he walks toward me in a gray suit that shimmers like a new quarter in the sun.
He comes close to give me a quick pat on the back and says my name,
Janelle, like it’s a greeting. I see the tiredness stained red in the corners of his eyes, from a full day of visiting clients and old friends on the way to pick me up.
I have people to see along the way, he’d said. As if they were the ones that made the stagnant hours on the road worthwhile.
I don’t realize my fingers are wrapped tightly around my suitcase until he tries to wrestle it from my fingers.
“Did you cram the whole house in here?” he asks as he opens the trunk and heaves the suitcase inside. He grunts, dusts off his hands as if they’ve gotten dirty, and slams the trunk shut. We both look toward the empty apartment complex, and stupidly, I wave at the time-battered bricks.
Call me if you need me, Mom said this morning before leaving for her nursing shift. But we both know I won’t call. These days our words are so sharp they could cut our own tongues. This is my chance to leave everything behind, including her voice.
Uncle Rowan says, “Let’s get a move on,” and nudges my shoulder.
I open the passenger-side door and pause, one foot hovering over the mat inside. The Georgia dirt clings to my black shoes like a final goodbye. I pull my foot out again and kick the curb, watching the dirt pepper the street.
When I step into the black-and-silver interior of the car, with all its gleaming gadgets, I feel like I’m stepping into the future. And I finally understand what a new car smells like. I’ve never ridden anywhere without the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the seats, the smell of gasoline thick in the air, the smell of unwashed bodies sitting too close.
“We’ll be home in about eight hours,” Uncle Rowan says.
The word
home rattles me. I remember that the place we’re driving away from isn’t home anymore, that it stopped being home a long time ago. Today my family name, my father’s name, feels like a mockery. Aƒenyo.
Home is good. A reminder of what’s been broken, what I no longer have.
I wrap my arms around my stomach and listen to Uncle Rowan talk about his legal practice and his new office in the heart of Delray Beach. An easy commute, he says.
I
uh-huh and
hmm to show interest while I watch the houses with yellowed siding and chain-link fences pass by the window with increasing speed. Then we’re on the highway, where Uncle Rowan sinks back comfortably in his seat and turns on music that makes me think of Afros, bumping hips, and bell bottoms. I’m relieved not to have to fill the silence with small talk.
Quietly, I pull out my copy of
The Best American Poetry and try to forget what I’m leaving behind.
Copyright © 2026 by Delali Adjoa. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
