Middle Passage
by jerry garfield
Then after it snowed, I wondered if we would go out—
Out into the bright-white Chicago afternoon of 1954
to find shiny coal nuggets in the back alley, chunks left behind
by two lanky Negroes who had shoveled coal
all morning long into wheelbarrows, pushing their loads
onto narrow wooden planks, bounding through the narrow
passageway between the redbrick garages, down two steps
into our small backyard to dump their loads into the yawning
mouth of the coal chute at the rear of our three-flat building.
The coal spilled down into a large, wooden bin, stored
for early mornings when our German janitor—tall, thin, blonde,
shovel in hand—would feed the furnace to heat our lives
two floors above. While nearby in another wooden bin,
our Passover dishes, wrapped in newspaper and straw,
wait silently for spring when Mother and I will steal down
the back stairs, turn on the one working light bulb, the other
long burned out, and pass by the nearly empty coal bin to retrieve boxes
and baskets of dishes and tea cups and ritual objects of our redemption.
“Middle Passage” was incorrectly formatted in the March 1 j.