Iris wouldn’t allow them to be sung and Malcolm’s brother’s sweet seven‐year‐old mouth was full. The broad‐shouldered woman, having once belted them out loud while showering, was now saved and refused to remember them. And as I descended, the music grew softer, the lyrics inside my head becoming a whisper, I knew a girl named Nikki, guess you could say she was a sex fiend. From my place on the stairs, I could see through the windows curious white people stopping in front of the building to listen. Malcolm’s younger brother, his dark skin glistening, blowing somberly into a harmonica.
Black fingers pulling violin bows and strumming cellos, dark lips around horns, a small brown girl with pale pink nails on flute.
But that afternoon there was an orchestra playing.
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