This short micro-fiction I wrote for my creative writing class about my experience in the Hill Chapel choir. I am still not satisfied with this yet, but hope it’s a springboard for a larger memoir I want to write about my experience at Hill Chapel…
My robe with the purple overlay is entirely too big. All the powerful tenor ladies, with their sweet-as-honey voices, wear the royal purple robes tailored to their voluptuous bodies. Mine was unearthed from the back of the dusty choir robe closet. I try to ignore the moth balls the best I can. My robe is ironically white, another proof I don’t quite belong in this church, even after a year of worshipping in this beautiful place. I had no choice but to settle down here at Hill Chapel. They received me with open arms while I was on the search for my new home, my new family. They chose me.
Remember, hike up all the extra cloth, suck on the Altoid hard and file into the right row.
They march to the pulpit cutting up with one another, as I read the foreign lyrics on my sweaty palm. Latima, Ms. Patty, Taqiyya and Iriana sang this spiritual before their untamed tufts of curly hair were first plaited. I hear the groans of the deacons sway, as I peer at my chair through the doorway. A deep breath in and out thaw my frozen feet. Suddenly, soft, worn hands touch my back. A whisper in my ear reverberates, “It’s okay, we may be from a different mother, baby, but we got the same Father. Go out there sang.”
Now is the moment rehearsal ceases. Alto, Soprano and Bass blend.
“Ezekial saw the wheel, way up in the middle of the air. The Big Wheel runs by faith, and the little wheel runs by the grace of God. A wheel in a wheel, way up in the middle of the air.”
We do blend.