BY BREANNA BURKE (staff writer)
My grandmother sits at the table, squeezes the
blackberry, and teaches us about the strength
of our blood. It is Christmas and a cool breeze
rests between the spaces that our bodies leave
Do you know where the light comes from?
Her hands weave histories of revolutions, and
I am transported to a pitch black time. There
is no sun here. In this silence, she begins to
mould golden men and women from the dust.
Liberation brews beneath the darkness.
Is this finally our song?
There was a time when we were
hidden, shackled by the voices that
took away everything. They told us
to keep moving, moving, moving.
Does time also feel the weight of our pilgrimage?
Now, Grandma tells me about our sisters
and brothers, whose hands shook as they crafted
freedom. Sometimes, their songs echo in a room
beneath someone’s laughter (I’d like to think they’re
proud of us)
What is a man without his name?
I am always fighting now.
Fighting for the good life that glimmers
like newly gutted gold. My grandmother
tells me that it is in my blood to fight
battles. Flowing through my veins is
freedom in its purest form—handmade by my
ancestors, carefully crafted by the light that
they struggled to attain.
Is there anything we can’t do?