Royal Purple


June 7, 2015 
9:29 AM

I wanted to take a picture of them. I just didn't want to get rejected or seem like a weirdo. I was too afraid to ask, so I missed the opportunity. 
Regretting it. 

They were the epitome of the depiction that we don't see in mass media. The eldest looked about sixteen or seventeen. Low caesar with too subtle parts on the side. Dark black skin. Smooth and shinny like he used shea butter that morning. There was a beat playing in his head but he didn't have any musical devices. He was using his hands to play a set of air drums. Tapping his feet in his purple dress shoes. Next to him was a younger, lighter version of him. Must have been about six or seven. Wearing a plaid purple suit. He kept bothering the smallest one of them all, the little sister. She was probably three or four. Her purple dress was bedazzled in sequence, sparkling brightly over her little legs. 

"Stopppp!" She softly yelled at her brother because he kept leaning on her, pretending he was falling asleep. 

"Lemme' alone! I'm not playinnnnggg with youuuu!" Her head swung, causing the barrettes in her hair to tap against her face as she yelled at him once more, this time, singing her words as she tried to make him quit. He still wouldn't stop until he got the look from his mother. She had been sitting there the whole time, wearing a two piece purple suit, reading what looked like a Jehovah Witness track. Her skin as light as her daughter's and her hair freshly blown out, Dominican style. She looked very young, too young to have children of those ages but the bags under her eyes told the tail of a hundred long nights and early mornings. 

He stood in front of her, holding on to the rail above his head with his left hand and carrying a black leather bible in his right. He wore a black suit with a purple tie and black loafers. His skin was jet like midnight with no street lights. 

We all got off on Marcy, all of us but him. He was a king but that wasn't his queen, those weren't his heirs. I trailed behind them. The middle boy held his baby sister's hand as they carefully walked down the stairs that led to Broadway. The eldest walked behind them all, in the true fashion of a man of the house. They were a beautiful black family, royally dressed in their matching Sunday's best, heading to praise and worship. 

I wanted to take a picture of them. I just didn't want to get rejected or seem like a weirdo. I was too afraid to ask, so I missed the opportunity. 
Regretting it. 

They were the epitome of the depiction that we don't see. 

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