| mama jo is a muse of mine. She appeared when I wrote "dat train", but I didn't recognize her as separate from myself until "long slow turn on a hard dirt road." It was then that she began to take form and I recognized that there was another voice in me. I can't call her out at will - she speaks when she speaks. I've learned not to predict her.
Yes, she has a physical appearance - she is about 90 years old, a tiny, wizened black woman with salty white hair pulled back in a bun. She's almost always wearing a blue polka-dotted Quiana dress, and (bless her) sensible shoes. She is a widow and her two children died young, but she is well attended by her nieces and nephews and the good folks at The Zion Bethel Baptist Church. She sits in a rocking chair (always to my right) with her cane over the arm rests and just watches, silently.
I adore her, this persona. It's hard to understand that something that is mine is "not me." I don't quite understand it, really, but I will continue to celebrate her when she visits. And if y'all drop by when she's been speaking to me, just consider yourself part of the welcoming party because I didn't organize her arrival or invitation - she came on her own volition.
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