Sweet Love

Anita Baker in a white, two-piece tailored suit with shoulder pads in the jacket and a flaring skirt, singing “Sweet Love” at a standing microphone, her shoulders rocking back and forth. A live performance music video of that song always came on “Video Soul,” which I watched every chance I could on our boxy brown TV with antennas and a cable box. The TV sat on a stand with records underneath. Sister Sledge, David Bowie, The Pointer Sisters. I’d sit right in front of the TV on our fuzzy green shag carpet.

My mother was a tiny dark skinned forty something woman with a short haircut like Anita. She maintained her hairstyle meticulously, curling it every morning to touch it up from the night before.

So much music filled our house on Saturday mornings, when we would clean, or on evenings when my mother would go out alone. I would sit on the green carpet, the TV or stereo keeping me company while I listened for my mother in the bathroom, down the hall humming or singing along to whatever was playing. She seemed happy then and she was so beautiful to me as she walked back and forth from the bathroom, through to the living room where I was, to the kitchen to check on something cooking in the oven. Multitasking. She was a whirlwind, a flurry of activity, and wearing a different part of her outfit every time she walked by. First, just pantyhose, a girdle to contain her wide hips, a bra, then her skirt was on the next time. Usually slim but always cinched at her tiny waist. A blouse was on the next time she sprinted through, tucked into the skirt, with flowers or a demure but sure print.

Next, the jewelry, earrings that never dangled, then the lipstick­ — burgundy or some brown with a hint of berry. Her perfume came last. She had many signature scents over the years but what I remember most is that when I smelled them, a waft of musk and flowers, I knew that it was time for her to go again, to whatever the place was that made her so happy.

I do not know who stayed with me those nights, or if anyone did. It could not have been my siblings, they were nearly grown by then and already living their own lives. My godmother lived a drive away. I could not have been more than six years old. Would my mother have left me alone? What I know for sure is that she was a beautiful blur of singing, grown woman black beauty. And then, for a time, she was gone.