Music in My Heart: My Journey with Melody

I say we should go listen to the gospel music. Mrs. Porter reminds me of Grammy, and I miss her so much.

Melody nods and apologizes to Dwayne, who grins and says we can come over anytime before ducking out the door.

Mrs. Porter smiles, her cheeks dimpling, and asks if we’d like a snack while she makes supper. Melody races for the kitchen, where I notice the old fridge, white and rounded, with a single door instead of two, and no visible freezer. Mrs. Porter opens it to reveal a hidden freezer compartment inside, then slides out an ice tray and pours us each a glass of lemonade.

I thank her, and she tells me to call her “Big Momma,” like everyone else does. My heart melts like an ice cube on a hot August day, and I want to hug her and never let go.

The sun hangs low as we step into Big Momma’s backyard after dinner. Melody’s grandpa, Poppa, hands me a cherry tomato off the vine. I’m too full from Big Momma’s chicken dinner to eat another bite, but the tomato bursts in my mouth, sweet and juicy.

Poppa says I should taste the tomatoes Melody grows in her own garden. He jokes that she’s got dirt under her fingernails just like him, though hers look perfectly clean. Melody laughs and explains he really means she loves to garden. Poppa owns a flower shop, and he helped her and her Junior Block Club plant flowers and vegetables at a neighborhood park. It’s been a lot of work, but it looks great.

I tell Melody I’d love to see it. Gardening is clearly one of Melody’s “passions,” as Dad would call it, and I wonder again what mine is. Melody bites into a tomato and juice squirts out. She claps a hand over her mouth. Big Momma warns us not to mess up our clothes, since Miss Dorothy will be here any minute to pick us up.

We giggle as Melody wipes her chin, and then the doorbell rings. Melody runs halfway up the steps before turning back to hug Poppa, wishing he were coming. He says he’s too tired, but he’ll sing to himself out in the garden, and gives me a wink as I wave goodbye.

Miss Dorothy’s car doesn’t have seatbelts either, and I try not to think about that as we cruise down 12th Street toward the performance hall. Melody points out Poppa’s flower shop, “Frank’s Flowers,” along the way. A few minutes later we stop in front of an old brick building. The hall doesn’t look fancy outside, but inside I feel a shiver of excitement. The walls are lined with photographs of performers, some glamorous and professional, others just groups of kids.

I ask if Melody is in any of the pictures. She says maybe, scanning the wall, but musicians are already tuning up on the stage, and Miss Dorothy and Big Momma wave us on to find seats. Halfway down the row, a woman calls out to Miss Dorothy and Big Momma. She’s tall and slender with black hair piled on top of her head, and she hurries over from the stage, glad we could come.

Miss Dorothy calls her Josephine and says it’s been too long. Josephine smiles warmly at me and Melody, who squeezes my hand as she introduces me. Big Momma asks where her husband is. Josephine says he’s around somewhere, thrilled we could all make it. She gestures toward the stage, we have front row seats.

I follow Melody. The stage is so close I could almost touch it, with a saxophone player warming up alongside a guitarist, a drummer, and a man at a huge piano. By the time the lights dim further, every table has filled. Big Momma raises a finger to her lips, the show is about to start.