Borough of Churches #3

A 'Brooklyn Zoo' Story

Sunday Service

Women wearing their "Sunday best" crowned with flamboyant hats engage in chit-chat as they wait for the Downtown B65. A mother drags reluctant children down the block to a storefront church. Stopped by a red light, a black Cadillac blares Gospel music as its driver belts out the lyrics, flawlessly hitting every key and note. People pack into a tiny brownstone church cozied between a Chinese restaurant and hair salon. A disgruntled father determined to catch the remainder of Sunday football shoves his sons through massive doors into a breath-taking sanctuary of pastels and gold molding. Ushers direct them and other members down large isles to available seats. Posted in a corner, the praise and worship team pray. Congregants talk amongst themselves while others read the Bible and pray with their neighbor. A heavy-set pianist makes his way to an old, rickety stool behind a 1969 Mahogany Model B Grand Piano. Gracefully, he tickles the keys. "In Jesus' name" the praise and worship team declare, ending their prayer. Stepping onto the altar, team members adjust mic stands and take swigs of room temperature water. In response, the congregation rises to their feet. Playful children silenced with a "single look" hurry their fathers' side. Teenagers remain seated but are "pulled up" by mothers demanding they stand in the presence of Almighty God. The pianist's melody swells. Whispered prayers embolden to a boisterous cry. Congregants worship with lifted hands and tears. A slight-sized man stylized by a 70's afro steps forward, grabbing the mic. He begins to hum. A hush falls throughout the building, as a palatable peace fills the sanctuary. People speaking in unknown languages lay prostrate in isles as others kneel at the altar. Women laid out in the isles and at the alter wearing skirts and dresses are covered with green and white garments by ushers.

Sunday Dinner

Off-white curtains etched with colorful embroidery roll and wave under a gentle breeze. Salsa music plays loudly on an Amazon Echo. Rosie enters the kitchen, tying a pink and red checkered apron around her waist. Her house shoes scrap against ceramic titles. Tip-toeing up behind Rosie, Edgar grasps her hips. Familiar with his touch, she falls into his embrace. Twirling around, Rosie wraps her arms under Edgar's, pulling him close. Bantering eyes dilate. Cheeks blush. Blood pressures elevate. The couple laugh and giggle. Natural sleuths, Edgar and Rosie's children sneak to the edge of the kitchen from the living room to eavesdrop. Careful not to blow their cover, they quietly laugh and josh in view of their parents' love. Even the oldest, Peter, participates.

Twilight paints the Hernandez's home with brilliant oranges, reds and purples. The youngest, Emily plays with blocks in front of bay windows, underneath the vivid mobile of a fading sunset, pretending to fly off beyond the stars on a Pegasus. Peter rounds the dinner table laying out plates and napkins followed by his little brother, Timothy. Carrying the silverware, Timothy aligns the forks and knives atop the napkins. Finished, Peter double backs to place glassware aside the china. Lifting his head from a novel, Edgar marvels at his "little girl" playing. Rosie emerges from the kitchen assisted by Peter carrying pernil. Back and forth they go, bringing out arroz con gandules, plantanos maduros and a garden salad. Settled at the table, the Hernandez's take each other's hand for a prayer of thanksgiving. Edgar gently squeezes Rosie's hand, muttering "Love you babe." She smiles, turning red like an annatto seed, reciprocating Edgar 's affection with air kisses. Antsy, Timothy raises his head from folded hands, "Mami, papi can we say grace... I'm really, really hungry."

From the Dust We Come

Greenwood Cemetery

"To the dust we return" an overweight man proclaims beneath a new moon. Snapping closed a large, leather-bound Bible, he concludes his eulogy before an open grave. "As we lay Sasha to rest, we remember her life and who Sasha was. A wife, mother, friend - a matriarch! Although, no longer on earth, we her loved ones: family, friends, and those whom she inspired, honor and remember her! Sasha loved hard, unconditionally; wisdom and strength dwelt in her bones. As I look out at the faces of this intimate gathering of folk celebrating the life of Sasha, I see all the lives she touched! In closing, Sasha may be gone from this temporal plain, but she will be present in our hearts, memories and minds." Patting sweat from the pack of franks at the back of his head, the officiate gestures to the pavement. "At this time, I would like to direct the friends and guests of the bereft back to their vehicles. Those who received an invitation to the repass, please head to the residence listed on your order of service pamphlets." Mourners return to their cars and SUVs as the the grounds keepers make their way to the gravesite. They lower the dearly departed into the earth. Bitter tears stream down the face of a young man perched on a twisted tree trunk. An entourage mill about him. Silently, they weep from underneath sunglasses and burgundy bandanas. Others, bury their face in the breasts of their suit jackets. Drops of blood satiate parched earth from clinched fists. A hand places a silk, burgundy handkerchief into the young man's hand; their luxury watch shimmers in the moonlight. Dirt is denied its fill while the mouchoir engorges itself, sopping up the young man's blood as it's dragged across the hands. Melanin returns to whitened knuckles. Wrapping his arm around the bereaved, a debonair, middle-aged, bald man delicately guides the young man away from the open grave to a black SUV. He motions to a man standing at attention, mouthing. "Put someone to look after Sasha. Ensure nothing happens to her body!"

"Bet!"

With bounce in his step, the man approaches the entourage. Stone faces discard sorrow as the man's eyes make their way through the group's ranks. "Listen, ya know what's up and where we at! Someone's gotta stay with Sasha until - I would but I already know what it is... I'm needed back at the house, and I can't be two places at once!" Steel in their backs, the entourage fix their focus on the enforcer - his gaze ever scrutinizing. Meeting the man's stare with their own, a dark-skinned guy steps forward, towering over the enforcer. Muscle upon muscle fill his suit. Brandishing pearly-whites, a maleficent smile betrays the radiance of the volunteer's grin.