Lisa Sukenic - Miles from Motown

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Printed in the United States of America Dedication Dedicated with love to my parents, Lawrence and Arlene Sukenic who grew up in Detroit, May their memory be for a blessing Detroit, Michigan, Friday, June 16, 1967
The last day of school I can barely hear Mrs.

Murphy telling us to mail our poems for the citys Spirit of Detroit Poetry Contest. The classroom ceiling fan spins round and round. The whir isnt soft; its a fast twirling sound, like the cards that Ceci and I put on our bike spokes. She passes out envelopes, to write our addresses. I pause, pencil to envelope, and take a breath, hold the pencil tight, and write Georgia Johnson, 1896 Winton, Detroit, Aunt Birdies address, not mine. I start to sweat, not because I am on the third floor on a hot day in the middle of June at Rutherford Elementary School.

I know the rules, even though Mrs. Murphy reads them aloud again. All poets must live in Detroit to win. I am starting a lie, but I dont care. My parents are making us move to the suburbs. I keep asking why, but they wont tell me.

They are taking me too far from who I know, too far to walk back here. I want to stay stuck in time, like a movie in slow motion. Next year, my friends will go to junior high in Detroit. I wont be in class with my best friend, Ceci, for the first time ever. Mrs. Murphy says, Gwendolyn Brooks will choose the winning poem, and the winner will receive a letter in July.

Her words sound distant, like they are moving through water. Remember how we read Bronzeville, Boys and Girls and learned to write like real poets? Mrs. Murphy places her hand on my shoulder, Especially you, Georgia. I dont want to be called teachers pet, so I barely look up. Dont forget to drop your entries in the mailbox. Shes telling us to have a wonderful summer.

The word wonderful and my life dont mix. The worst part is that when my older brother, Ty, comes back from Vietnam, he will never live in our old house again. Last night at home It is my last night here. Im awake, not wanting to go to sleep, not wanting to go tomorrow. I write a poem instead. On high
I remember me flying in the air, Tys feet on my belly, me balancing, steadying my arms out to the side, my large wingspan like a great blue heron.

I begin to lose my balance, grab his strong hands. That is what my six-year-old self remembers. Saturday, June 17
The moving truck
I hear the high-pitched squeak of brakes from the moving truck. I already said my goodbyes to Ceci. Shes left for Flint to stay with her Grandma. I need to give Aunt Birdie my goodbye hug.

Shes gone back to her house to get something for me, but I cant wait.
I follow her across the alley between our houses, stones crunching beneath my feet like quicksand, pulling me back. I jump over a puddle and reach the gate, remember the tag games that my middle brother, Jerome, and I played before he started acting all teenage-like. I look toward the alley, grass growing between the two tire paths, black-eyed Susan, dandelions, and Queen Annes Lace.
Aunt Birdies skirt flies up, the flower patterns waving, like a sailboat caught in the wind. I hug hard, burying my head on her shoulder.

I look up and she smiles with the same laugh lines Mama has.
You go now Youre my brave girl. Ill see you soon. I grab on tighter, dont want to lose this hugging feeling. She hands me a change purse that jingles with coins. Its lined with silky fabric.

Inside she has left her phone number and address. Gently, she pulls my fingers off her skirt like she did when I was young and I wanted to stay at her house longer. Ill try to pretend that the few miles between here and there are small, like an inch on a scale map and I will be back to visit, but it will never be the same. Jerome and Daddy go first
It is four in the afternoon by the time the truck is loaded. Jeromes friends from his baseball team have helped all day. They have sweaty backs, shirts sticking to them.

Theyre giving each other pats and punches, and hugs to Jerome and Daddy. Daddy offers them each $10 bills that they refuse to take. Goodbye, Mr. Johnson, they all say. Jerome stands on the other side of the street and signals for him to back the truck out of the driveway. I ride with Mama.

I cant look up or back, no time for tears now. I promise myself to not wave or turn around and become like Lots wife in the Bible, who turned to salt, but I cant help it. We live at the end of the block near busy 7 Mile, our block, my block. I know the cracks in the sidewalk that always catch our skates, the tree that I was small enough to hide behind for hide-and-seek, Mr. Gregg listening to the Tigers game on the radio and Weisss Deli on our corner, just between our house and the alley. Were now turning onto Greenfield.

Theres the cleaners where I go get our ironed sheets, Cunninghams drugstore, where Ceci and I pick up super balls and the workers in smocks would slap our hands. Two blocks down, the Kresges Five & Dime, where we get our Sanders hot fudge cream puffs at the counter. Mama turns onto the highway. What was mine and what I know is gone. Driving away
The ride seems long, even though its only seven miles. Highway. Highway.

I see the exit to Northland Mall, familiar 8 Mile Road, the viaduct, the dividing point, my home gone and then unfamiliar, and then I see a Welcome to Southfield sign. I feel something in my pocket. Its the tree manual card that I read to Daddy when he dug up our oak tree. My eyes blur. I barely see Step 4. If the taproot is damaged, it will not survive.

Taproot, taproot, taproot, tap my foot, tap, tap. Georgia! Stop, please! Mama, please go back home. Mama just turns and gives me her no look. Subdivided Highway ends and slides into the new subdivision, houses under construction, skeletons with new 2 x 4 planks, empty rooms and stairways reaching to nowhere, new green and white street signs, Washington, New Jersey, and Maryland. I remember that Ceci and I had to memorize all the states and capitals last year. Arrival