Flowering Unsung Love

By Amauunet Ashe

Three blooming short stories sauted and seasoned from the quintessential city of New Orleans. Each fictional story covers a period in the real life of an African American females quest for making joy, an expression of self-love. Throughout the book, the author uses innuendos from ancestors, songs, speeches, biblical passages, and the profound laws of nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514474631

Amauunet Ashe

Amauunet Ashe is a first-time writer born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, mother of two, and a lifelong advocate for individuals with special needs and those faced with social injustice. She is currently working with Young Audiences of Louisiana as an arts integration teaching instructor and artist.

Book preview

© 2016 by Amauunet Ashe.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2016904085

ISBN:                Hardcover                               978-1-5144-7462-4

                          Softcover                                 978-1-5144-7461-7

                          eBook                                        978-1-5144-7463-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/15/2016

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Unsung Love

Day 1, Saturday

Day 2, Sunday

Day 3, Monday

Day 4, Tuesday

Day 5, Wednesday

Day 6, Thursday

Day 7, Friday

Darker Than Brown

Neutral Grounds

Lagniappe     Poetry for All Ages

Journey of One

Comfort

All

Funny Valentine

Darker Than Brown

Crucian Sunset

Hope for Love

Shadows

Straight No Chaser

Welcome to My Heart

To Hasina, Abasi, and Khalid and in loving remembrance of my paternal and maternal grandmothers, Albertine and Henrietta

Acknowledgments

I humbly extend heartfelt gratitude to Khalid Hafiz, my beacon of light, and to my Sisterhood circle of friends, Sannyu Linguist Avant, Richard Bates of Young Audiences of Louisiana, and Xlibris Self-Publishing Company. And a big thank you to all the folks who offered me support.

Unsung Love

This story, a love story about the patience of true, unrequited, unsung

love, would last more than two decades. Enjoy the journey of Amber

Marley!

***

Day 1, Saturday

Maxi and I arrived at a mutual friend’s party around 8:30 p.m. She hit the dance floor nonstop for twenty minutes. We both were, and some would say still are, classic dancers. As a matter of fact, the birthday honoree was also a lifetime dance diva. I greeted a few people as I walked toward the restroom. Standing in the corridor was Kashmere, my deepest, truest obsession. He looked heavenly. It had been eight or nine years since I had seen his loveliness. My imagination was vivid whenever I referenced him. His tan color and soft demeanor immediately invited me into his private world. I blushed and gently brushed against his tall, slender physique. We greeted, and I continued on to the restroom. While in the restroom, I placed my left hand on my heart in an attempt to slow its rhythm. My breasts were rising, seemingly growing right before my eyes. This quiet yet charming man tantalized me each time we met, and he was clueless to this fact. I should tell him tonight.

Kashmere was standing in the same spot when I finally reappeared. I stopped directly in front of him, close enough to touch, but I didn’t. I just stood there, having a mental orgasm. I got a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, my favorite wine, and quickly took my stupefied ass to the nearest seat because my head was helplessly swirling like a spinning top. As I sipped the wine, my thoughts raced back to Kashmere, and I prayed that he would come to me. I was working my God-given mental telepathy to bring him to me. Nearly twenty years had passed, and I could only recall seven lackluster conversations with Kashmere. Regardless, each encounter created a succulent memory that exceeded the modern science of physics. They were total out-of-body experiences for me. Even now, the mere thought of him increased the flavor of my wine. I was delightfully delirious.

I scanned the square-shaped room, which was actually a large dance studio with full-length mirrors covering 75 percent of the walls. The birthday diva was dancing in the center of the floor with five others, including Maxi. Maxi was wearing a sexy three-quarter-length black lace skirt that accentuated her every move. Her execution was sharp and precise. She was a happy dancer. On the way to the party, Maxi had expressed the need for a good workout, and she was doing just that. Her movements were a combination of Brazilian, Senegalese, and Geisha, all blending perfectly to emphasize her elongated, slender legs and the seductive wavy motions of her torso. Sistah was jamming it. The smile on her face was an affirmation of what she was feeling—sheer gratification.

The inner dancer in me only moved when the music found its way deep inside my rhythm, which caused a surreal, almost metamorphic experience to occur. Usually, I danced with my eyes closed for a few seconds, feeling the music. Even when I danced with a group, I had to remember to stay with the group and not wander off on a mental retreat.

I danced once at the party, real soft and slow, like an orchid giving birth to its first blooms. I was showing off its delicate flowers of milky white, tangerine orange, and sweet violet. While dancing, my mind drifted to a secret garden where I experienced mystic elations within my private paradise. Lucky for me, my dance partner unknowingly rescued me from myself.

Suddenly, Kashmere appeared on the dance floor. He was dancing—wow. I watched attentively his old-school, laid-back movements: a little shoulder action, side-to-side swaying. It was simply adorable! I tried not to stare but couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to dance naked with him or for him. I was fixated on his every move; he genuinely seemed to be having fun. This was the first time I had been in his presence and he wasn’t working, multitasking, shuffling papers, carrying two walkie-talkies in addition to a cell phone, and completely absorbed in deep thought, absolutely in the moment. Once he was relieved of his job on the dance floor, he mingled a little and finally was standing directly in front of me. He sat down, and my eyes never left his face as we started to share our stories that covered the past eight to ten years, including Hurricane Katrina’s wrath. Thirty minutes into the conversation, I asked if he was at the party alone, and he replied, Yes. I excitedly responded with That’s a good thing!

It was now 10 p.m., and Maxi was ready to go. We had agreed on that time as our curfew. Kashmere and I exchanged numbers and a kiss. As I headed toward the door, I wondered what he was thinking and hoped that his thoughts were of me. It was a chilly night; the air was damp yet crisp. I wondered if Kashmere was thinking about the sensational power of body heat—his and mine.

The traffic on I-10 east heading to Maxi’s house was much lighter than it was earlier, even though construction workers were still flagging traffic. Maxi and I talked shit all the way to her house, mostly about Kashmere. As we traveled on the interstate, the approaching vehicles’ lights flickered and flashed like fireflies on the dash of Maxi’s black convertible Jaguar. Yes, indeed, Maxi was doing well financially.

She was a single, successful dentist without a man most of the year. Her man, Joshua, was somewhat of a vagabond who lived ten months out of the year outside the United States. Most of Maxi’s travels revolved around him. Their love spanned over thirty years, and they had probably made love in more countries than I had fingers. She lovingly described him as mesmerizing, intriguing, eccentric, and her forever soul mate. We reminisced about Joshua to the background music of Cole Porter.

Besides running into Kashmere, today was great more importantly because my son, Aidan, turned seventeen. As I started my Toyota Tacoma truck, I revisited the wonderful time we shared on his special day. We laughed and smiled at each other while eating a delicious meal at Red Lobster. Afterward, he and a friend went shopping at Lakeside Mall. I imagined they were mostly girl watching, their favorite pastime. I thought of the pains I suffered bringing him into the world and compared them to the last three years of parenting a teenager as a suitable rival for my suffering. Oh, how I loved him then and love him still; this love never resigned. Aidan was my music man, my lyricist. He looked like his parents, standing five six and weighing 141 pounds with a cocoa butter complexion. He had a deep affection for music. His musical genius was showcased at three years old when he played the djembe, a drum from West Africa. His musical instruments now included the baritone and the guitar. Music and sports were his two favorite things in the world, as my son was a formidable point guard on and off the court.

Aidan’s father and I met in 1969, when I was fourteen and he was seventeen. He was a member of the local Black Panther Party and came to our house to sell their literature to my dad. I liked teasing him about his supercool afro that added several inches to his stature. He would let me pat it down and then fluff it up. It was silky soft, like cotton waiting to be picked. I mimicked the way he walked, jazzy and smooth—real hip. He was a profound thinker, and occasionally, we discussed what was going on in our community and other communities like ours around the country. Black people were being denied basic human rights, victims of racial violence, and police brutality. He told me Huey P. Newton, the Black Panther Party’s founder, was born in Louisiana, and all black people were African descendants. It was an epiphany of self-identity. I was already sporting natural hairdos and wearing cultural clothes, so it was inevitable for me to progress into this new era of black consciousness.

Aidan’s father left the next year to attend Grambling University, and it would be twenty-one years later when we’d reconnect and have a son. He was now a Muslim and even more radical. He had intolerable flaws: argumentative, rigid and overbearing. Why was I with him? We were like fire and ice. I was firecracker hot, and he was there to smother my slightest spark. He was incapable of being loved, by me anyway. After three years of fussing and cussing at each other, I realized he was impossible to live with. He and Aidan were very close and were a lot alike. Both were critical, radical thinkers.

Now was the perfect time to introduce my daughter and friend, Miss Samaria. We were both Librans and had a lot of the same personality traits. Miss Samaria was my soul child; my love for her was deep down in my gut. She had exceeded all my expectations of her. She had diverse school experiences: first public, then a Muslim academy, followed by home schooling, then back to public school. At each junction, she soared to great heights, finishing third out of 289 in her graduating class. Miss Samaria was currently in medical school, with a promising career as a community-based family doctor. Much more than brainy, Miss Samaria was tall, beautiful, and cultured. She excelled as an artist and thrilled audiences as a stunning dancer. I truly believed she was born to dance. When she smiled, you knew the world had promise because she was in it. Everyone who met her said she was an angel. God truly blessed her abundantly.

I was brought back to reality by the buzz coming from the empty passenger seat next to me. It was my cell phone vibrating. With a quick glimpse just moments before merging onto I-10, I recognized the unfamiliar number. It was Kashmere! My heart skipped, my legs tingled, and I said out loud, Oh my goodness. Hearing his voice started a heat wave within my soul. The time was 10:31 p.m. He very politely asked if I wanted to hang out at his place. My answer was yes. Without even thinking, I changed lanes and headed back into the city. Kashmere lived in the Broadmoor area, not far from Xavier University, a neighborhood hit hard by Hurricane Katrina.

As I turned onto South Broad, I solemnly acknowledged my old neighborhood. Wow, I used to play in the canal that ran alongside