In the future, a feast.
Even the crows will come.
In the future I will have white-silver hair, like my Grandma. Every week a feast with friends. On the table: plums. Even the crows will come. We’ll tell stories of mami wata and undrowned wishes. In the future I will have learned the art of forgiveness. My entire past will sit at the table. You will be there. The ferns will be there. Every wall will be painted in surprise. Words will live peacefully above our heads. You will translate for me the sign language of the rain’s many hands. •
I painted this painting on a giant, 16x12 inch sheet of canvas paper in the first weeks that my wrist, which had fractured in multiple places, was stuck in a cast. Maybe it was to prove to myself that even without my right hand, I could make something bright. And I did — the painting is whimsical and full of little characters and swarming bees dipped on with q-tips.
Last week I shared a lyric essay to honour my Grandma’s passing but this one, maybe, is even truer. I used to ask her about forgiveness.
After loss, maybe, we need to dare the future with what we have left. We need it to surprise us.
If you’ve been around for the last two years of A Broken Tulip, you may hear resonances in this brief poem of what I’ve already written and shared. A world within a world. Plums and rain and mami wata.
And of course, echoes of older posts where I write about the layering of my grandparents’ stories with my own. Like this one:
This entire story is only possible in the past.
What we choose is a sharp mountain range. To look at it is to face cold wind. Even the blue dog at your side stops scattering songbirds to bow his head. The mountains are blue and white. The river is white / ice.
Beautiful.
What a beautiful tribute to conversations with your grandma ☺️