Lord Have Mercy

When Mama was pregnant with me, her first child, the fact that Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm was way out in the boondocks and a long way from the nearest hospital caused her no small amount of anxiety. Her time came on a Friday, which was also the thirteenth day of the month, and Mama, superstitious by nature, worried that my birth on such an ominous day might work mischief in her son’s life. The flute fiasco gave credence to her worries. For my seventh birthday, she gave me the little musical instrument. I loved it, and traipsed around the house, tooting happily. One day, the flute’s tooting stopped abruptly when I tripped and fell on it, jamming it firmly in my throat.