Ma George

Ma George had a way with words. He was not a writer or poet, but he knew his words. How he knew his words. He knew how to choose ‘em, how to speak ‘em. Every word he said was said with dis-tinction. (He taught me that word). Before he’d open his mouth, he’d always wait, ‘cause he always took longer than anyone else to say what was on his mind. But when them words came out, he made them sound so rich soundin’ like he was some Congressman or General or somethin’ important like that. Ma George knew how to choose his words and he didn’t need a dictionary or any of that university stuff. He just knew. It was like them words were in his bones. Know what I mean? Like they was born with him. Know what I mean? Like when someone’s good at soccer and was born already kickin’ a ball. Ma George didn’t cry tears when he came into this world, he spoke words. Words! I tell you! When ma George spoke, everyone stopped what they was doin’, to listen, even if he didn’t say much. But what he said, he said it right and even if it didn’t make much sense to them, they agreed anyway. You see, ma George didn’t know everythin’, but he knew a lot a stuff. He was an intelligent man; too intelligent for his time. I miss ma George, but I know he’s happy ‘cause he’s got the angels listenin’.