parking lot prayers

I am a woman with many hometowns. I do not often tell this to people. How can you have many? Is one more homey than another? what makes it so? what is a hometown made of?

It is raining, I am at the Walmart parking lot walking to my car alone. The wind is cool and so soft. The sky feels purple and pink and dark in all the right ways. The rain lifts my face upwards and gently encourages me to a prayer. I do not remember what I prayed for, only that I felt my soul whispering. I drive through this hometown and count each drop of rain that hits the windshield. I stop at a gas station and collect rain in a cup. I drive once more, not exactly sure where. Just onward and onward. I have a theory that if you drive in the same direction long enough, you will arrive home. The rain slows to a stop. And my car seems to be driving itself.

It is humid and I am at school. The lady announces children’s names for pick up. My name is last. My mother picks me and my siblings up. We stop for shawarma on the way to the grocery store. We are in the Lulu parking lot eating together after school. After we are done, we go in and shop. I see my science teacher in the canned soup isle. She greets me and we joke as we part ways. After groceries are complete, we head back to the car. The air feels like sand and salt and I cant wait to get home and play fantage with my friends. The sound of plastic bags and shopping carts pull my little heart to a prayer. We drive back home with the music blaring, satisfied with a day not complete. I have a theory that grocery shopping should be done as a family once in a while. My body has memorized the roads home. And the car seems to be driving itself.

It is winter and I am smothered in Nivea lotion and a thick wool high neck sweater. I am sat amiably on a beautiful speckled tile floor, three inches away from the cherry-red glow of an electric heater. Laughing at courage the cowardly dog playing in Urdu on a rounded little television with my sisters and cousins. We take a walk on the rooftop where the air is cold and slippery and the sky is of almost no concern to me. I peel the cracking wall paint and crumble it in my little hands. My uncle takes us out for a drive where we ask for snacks. The car has cranks to open the windows and it smells like the perfect blend of motor oil and starch spray. As we wait for our snacks to arrive, we sit tightly packed in a parking spot. The sky is dark and cold and it actually feels warm and steamy. The sounds of old mobile games, street cars and lights lull me into a prayer I didn’t know I made. I have a theory that the best prayers are the ones you don’t remember, and that a hometown is simply a place you cannot forget. Our snacks have arrived, we shared everything and headed for home. The car is moving all on it’s own.

<3

Have been thinking about writing something with this title “parking lot prayer’ ever since I heard it said in this song :)

the pace of everyday life was human here. Apparently there was time in this city. Time to roll a cigarette just so, time to examine vegetables with the eye of a diamond cutter. And time for old men to gather outside a storefront and do nothing but watch their dreams go by: the gorgeous cars of criminals and the hip-sway of women. Time, too, to instruct one another, pray for one another, and chastise children in the pews of a hundred churches.”
― Toni Morrison, Home