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.