I don’t want to talk about me.
I want to talk about her.
She is mother’s mother
Matriarch and Patriarch
She is ancestor.
She is mortar and pestle on the kitchen counter.
Mayi moulen simmering on the stove
Floral and paisley painted on her skirts
Chanel lingering on her skin
Morning stretches in a pink mumu
Gazing at the miracle of Mother Mary on the wall, clutching her rosary.
She is a survivor who crossed oceans so the world could see
Throwing her head back while laughter and music floated from her throat
And we are tiny hands massaging her feet during Dallas and Falcon Crest on Friday nights
And sitting between her legs as she greased, parted and braided many a crown.
She is slicing with deft hands, avocado as an offering to us.
the shape of her mouth as she said Ah-vo-ca-do
Haiti never left her.
Her presence made brothers and sisters out of cousins.
Her essence made brothers and sisters out of cousins.
And I offer
These words to her.