So, Pack Light
On October winds of change, commitments to figuring it the f*ck out, and an ode to liberation
Bergamot tea with rose, warms my throat while Nikki Giovanni says, “If anybody can find what there is in this darkness, it’s Black women.”
My Piscean Sun by my side, chewing on his toy.
His bottom two teeth have broken through the surface.
A rite of passage.
We had to pack light, as Mama Erykah says.
So, on this brisk October morning, I sit in an apartment that isn’t mine,
but is home
For now.
Sitting with legs crossed, my back at ease against the powder blue couch.
My things are in bags, but my altars, erected.
While I eye my dad’s urn, I give thanks to Creator that
I
Am
A
Black
Woman
This year, this fall equinox, these winds of change.
Winds of change and rippling waters forcing me to figure it the fuck out.
A blessing.
Nikki invites us to have A Good Cry. But ain’t no more tears to shed.
Trust.
Light and liberation for my past, present, future.
Aché.
For the women in my line who couldn’t leave.
For those who chose to stay.
Luz.
For my grandmother, who conformed and shape shifted.
For my grandmother, who found liberation in transition from this earthly plane.
Ibae.
The birth of a rising Sun, a reclamation of Self.
That refuses to be made small.
Who will no longer be the punching bag of patriarchy.
Ain’t no way.
Developing new muscles, I call on my ancestral matriarchs.
Who too, have been here before.
Who clap and rejoice as they see me, be me.
Finally.
Deeply, an Eldest Daughter reminds me that we are
Matriarchs-in-Training
What kind of matriarch will I be?
A word.
We tend to our hearts in most tender season.
Gratitude for my Orí.
Maferefún Yemayá.
For alchemy.
For the breaking of cycles that no longer serve.
Past, present, future.
How beautiful is She.
