stories

Good Things

Aunty said when I’m her age, I’ll only remember the important, the beautiful, the good things, and the rest won’t matter. only the moments of hot sun ecstasies laid at my doorstep as gifts. Separate from the heartbreak which they could not help, which could not be any other way, which cannot be undone but forgive them anyway or don’t. If you can’t.

You are thick with creation, dripping sacred. I want to wrap a shawl around you; I want you to feel as beautiful as your ancestors, as beautiful as if colonization never happened or maybe it did, but you wouldn’t know it from that sunset blush exploding across your face, on your chest, in the sky. I make a drunk cathedral of the space between your arms. days-full of reverie in mind, I take my mark. Four, three, two.

I imagine you sitting here, enjoying your food. Something with cream and butter and lard and all the delicious fat they threw away as they attempted to drill an ethic of starvation into us, we, an excessive people with far too much fight for freedom. Tell someone what you have seen. They may not believe you at first, but tell it anyway.