I was sixteen when my mother went on strike. For reasons I will never know, she went into her bedroom and she didn’t come out. It seemed like for years, but I don’t know how long it really was. Over a year for sure. I drove around in her big, green Oldsmobile Delta 88. Dad did the Christmas shopping and Pearline did the rest. She must have come out eventually because I got a brand new Chevrolet Monte Carlo.
It was not a happy time. Things happened. You would have thought that it would bring us closer together, sharing the secrets. But no, we became strangers. We limped along as a family until we three kids could get the hell out of there. I left Memphis forever; my sister stayed for a while before relocating to DC and my brother started wearing black.
Once we were all grown, a funny thing happened. My mother found herself. She and Dad bought the big, fancy house she always wanted, joined a new church, made new friends, and seemed to enjoy each other’s company for the first time I could ever remember. My mother came to life. It was a rebirth. I have tried to make sense of all of this. There are things I don’t know, details of their lives I will never be privy to, my own childish perceptions and misconceptions. I would like to say we had some sort of reconnection as adults, but that didn’t happen either. It was more like a truce. And now they’re dead.
Just Passing Through 
I want you to write a movie. I want to see that movie. If you don't know the story, make it up. You'll probably be right.
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