![]() ![]() She was a big girl, taller than her five-foot-four mother and thirty-five pounds heavier. Nobody’s read it, except Sekou.” Cinnamon wouldn’t let go. ![]() “Why did Sekou give that to you?” Opal Jones, Cinnamon’s mom, tugged at The Chronicles. Nobody looked droopy-mostly good Christians arguing whether Sekou, after such a bad-boy life, would hit heaven or hell or decay in the casket. Uncle Dicky had a flask and claimed he was lifting everybody’s spirits. Mourners in black and navy blue stuffed their mouths with fried chicken or guzzled coffee laced with booze. With gray walls, slate green curtains, olive tight-napped carpets, and a faint tang of formaldehyde clinging to everything, Johnson’s Funeral Home might as well have been a tomb. She gripped the leather-bound, special edition of The Chronicles her half brother Sekou had given her before he died. “Books let dead people talk to us from the grave.”Ĭinnamon Jones spoke through gritted teeth, holding back tears. ![]()
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