Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy
As I was telling Mariah all these things, all sorts of little details of my life on the island where I grew up came back to me: the color of six o’clock in the evening sky on the day I went to call the midwife to assist my mother in the birth of my first brother; the white of the chemise that my mother embroidered for the birth of my second brother; the redness of the red ants that attacked my third brother as he lay in bed next to my mother a day after he was born; the navy blue of the sailor suit my first brother wore when my father took him to a cricket match; the absence of red lipstick on my mother’s mouth after they were all born; the day the men from the prison in their black-and-white jail clothes came to cut down a plum tree that grew in our yard, because one of my brothers had almost choked to death swallowing whole a plum he picked up from the ground.
Reading Jamaica Kincaid on the subway train is some dangerous activity. Now my phone’s gone, I missed my station stop and her book ended too damn fast!
Here Jamaica Kincaid doing a reading (not from Lucy).