Spitting Distance From The Dead

I feel the dead sometimes.

As if I am an alarm clock startling them from sleep.

How do you gently wake the ghost of a past up?

Recently I was asked to teach a poetry workshop. It was last minute and I didn't know much about the event, apart from the organization brought community together, a focus on Afrocentrism, so to imagine a different kind of future, to reinvent what is to come.

Before I began the group writing exercise, my co-facilitator asked us all to invite our ancestors into the room.

I listened to the participants as they shared stories of their own mothers, grandparents, friends, lovers, idols, now passed.

Every story carries my own. Every person has a note to add to My Mother's Song, until all our journeys collide and create a new destination. The dead become alive. The past becomes the present. Those once forgotten, define everything let to discover.

We are a chorus of lost songs.

And in they came, my grandfather and his brother, filling that musty community hall with swagger and smiles.

And so I know, in some beautiful way...

My story carries yours too.

#singingmymother's song