…you brought me in this world
Happy Ancestral Birthday, Mom! As I celebrate your 95th year—only 68 on this side of the plane, way too short—it’s hard to say I miss you because, although you’re not here in the flesh, I probably talk to you more than ever. I hear your voice clearly when I sit still to listen. To remember. To love.
If I could time travel, I wouldn’t waste my time on the “If I knew then…” scenarios (well, maybe I’d pick up a few shares of IBM and Apple). I’d go back to 1965-ish, when you were my entire world—seeing the essence of Black joy in your smile and laugh, in a world outside working hard to steal it.
On Dad’s birthday, I wrote that I was thankful not only for him but even more for you being there with him in the realm, to read him the words he couldn’t. You taught me the power of words, books, and being able to articulate my feelings on paper. You encouraged me to draw, to be an artist, but I was hardheaded and didn’t appreciate the talent I was given. Today, I appreciate the second art form you instilled—writing. One out of two ain’t bad.
I just realized I’m talking about me too much in your birthday wish; without you, there is no me. I know the party on the other side is on a grand scale—you have a lot of family there with you to celebrate a queen.
I love you more than I can possibly express in this journal, even though you gifted me with the tools. So, I’ll just say—Happy Birthday, Mom.
Talk to you later.
