Do They Know?

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I wonder if when a person leaves this realm do they truly know that you loved them because you didn’t say the words despite your actions or if your actions seem awkward and your words meant truth? Do they know the truth when you have intentionally ignored them , birthdays and holidays -never a word. Do they know or do they learn the truth in the possible afterlife many of us have been taught to believe in . I think about my encounters with those close to me passing . I have mainly arrived after the fact. I have never seen a person slip out of this realm in a wake sense. I have seen those in a coma state , resting and waiting . I think of this at times because I don’t want the idea of dying to be scary to me. It cannot be because so many people that I truly love are there. If they are there, why should I be afraid to see them again, if there is an again.

Do they know in that final moment or is really just shock and then nothing? We are mortal and are adamant of representing immortality. There are those of us who really have no idea of when the last breathe will happen , then there are us who are in areas that make this thought center stage. The knowing that resting is not possible. The sound of explosions, the entering of buildings that are on fire, the profession of cleaning a window on the 250th floor, the idea of just crossing a street or the fact your skin could guarantee no tomorrows if you ask for help in an area that is prejudice against you. Will they know that they were loved? Will they think of you? Is there an inner journey that seems like the quantum realm to the living be at a crawling pace for the departing?

The idea of spirits coming back for unfinished business is nice to me, yet I think is not real. I like the idea of my ancestors journeying with me , after all I am their wildest dream. Spirits , if real , are seen as bystanders when good and active tyrants when evil. Why are good spirits always so helpless in movies and evil is without bounds? This is a poor mindset that the media has given us. One thing I have noticed with the idea of spirits is that they were evil because of abuse thus they form a pact with higher evil resulting in multitude of films repeating the story in various forms. I want spirits to be real because I want to make sure my loves know I loved them even though they did know; I want to say it to them to ease my soul. It’s selfish, I am human.

I doubt that the spirit world is real because following the ideas we created about angry spirits , there would be no Europeans walking this realm. So many ethnicities have been wiped out by this group of people thus they wouldn’t be. I cannot comprehend the idea that they would allow the oppressors linage to continue. So , my ancestors are possible not spirits. However, it is through the storytelling of spirits one’s ancestors are kept close, dying can have some balm, and abstract thought can thrive. The thoughts felt and dreamed may be DNA; the passing of organic material infused with new material in a new era. It possible could be explained by science. Is it their anger, fear, joy and countless emotions I feel or am I delusional? Either case I know never respond direct if a voice call my name that I cannot see, be mindful when beating the drum for I could be calling the dead and keep a white candle on standby.

So, do they know that you loved them? Maybe

Will I ever get my answer to this ? Yes

Will I be able to share it ? No

Because some things of this life are meant to always be pondered.

Happy Hallows Eve.

Grief

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Over the last few years my grief has capsulated me into a space where I am unable to feel . I have been walking in a haze wondering when the days will end. I ask myself why and create responses that reflect facts and aggressive fiction. I have issues with my self-esteem. I see every incident as a sign that shows abandonment . I have allowed moments of clarity keep me treading water while the other moments I am just floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with no sight of land for miles. I just float in an endless brilliant sun and waves that kind of cradle me instead of pulling me under.

I have been living in the scene unable to process the next steps with a clear mind and spirit. My ancestors have been cradling me , mainly the ones that crossed the great sea and chose freedom in the depths of the sea and the ancestors who escaped into the mountains and brought our traditions with our gods to the new world of the Caribs. My ancestors may not have been great fighters yet they found a way to stay alive and they have been keeping me from sinking. My mother has joined them and I hear her saying ”mommy loves you “. Its what she said every time we were together about to part ways. She said it in every message as well , Hi, its mommy in all her messages.

This is her favorite time of year. It was mine too and still is which makes it feel conflicting. I have lived with unprocessed grief and have forgotten how to keep her alive in my soul. I forget to soak the fruit for cake, to buy a tree , to play cheesy music and watch atrocities Christmas’ movies. I just sulk. I stopped hosting , creating a space for community that felt safe and freeing. I just walked out the door to sink into grief.

Grief has had an easy passage since I have dealt with bouts of depression for years. I have had moments where I never left the bed , just sleeping because in my head I felt seen , well, loved and successful. I have struggled for years. I pretend in public, thanks to taking theatre classes for a year. I pretended so much that now I am tired and say fuck it.

I scare people now. I am honest and clear on how I feel . I say what is hurting to those who are closest to me. I let people know that I have moods. I get nervous if I am overwhelming and try to balance who gets which parts of what is heavy on my soul. I have people that know how hard this month is for me. How it would be full of light and sensory endorphins to now bleakness and grey skies.

People that thought they were my friends , have left me because I am no longer “fun” because I cannot hid anymore. I am open now because I need help. I am open now because staying closed could cause my final chapter to happen. I have dreamed a particular dream for years where a death of some kind is coming for me and I run but not really. I had it again however this time and embraced it . This threw death of course and hesitated to attack me . It came to me slowly only for me to kill it. I want to live and proclaimed it . I want to live for my ancestors hard work and for me. This is my present to myself. To live for me because floating will eventually give me a horrible sunburn which would ruin my velvety chocolate skin plus the pruning could become permanent. I have decided to swim towards the next step in a vast body of water that currently hasn’t land in sight.

Will I find land , hopefully. If I don’t at least I have started to swim. The waves have always been kind to me all these years. I think they want to me to explore.

a memory filing system

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I recently returned from celebrating my papa’s 100th birthday. It was great going home ;the  sun, sea, food and the parties!! My papa  is an early 1920’s ( we think) baby, raised in the countryside of the island.  His parents: farmers by trade would wait until their children were walking and talking before getting them registered in the capital. Now this trek was expense and time consuming so at times families would take two kids at a time , giving siblings three years a part the same birth year ( trippy right?).  This was bad , yet not as bad as registering the child’s name.

Family: Hello , we would like to register our son

Clerk: okay, child’s name

Family: Linden

Clerk:  okay , Lindell

Family:  No , we said Linden

Clerk: I think Lindell, sounds better

Family: But that is not what we want

Clerk: Trust me this is better

Family: We don’t want  to name our son named Lindell !!!

Clerk: It will grow on you

Family: What??!!!

Clerk: Trust me , NEXT!

Anyway , my papa has endured 100  years of life , still walking & talking,  I like when he tells this story. He is one of the few people in my country that have  their real name as a pet name  which makes him extra unique. I  enjoy when he ruffles through his memory  bank and produces an interesting story that may make senses to locals and pearl clutching to others.  I think about the change in his skin  protrusion of views, the delicateness of his skin and how he feels cold more often. He is worried about his stories . He is concerned about his family. He is daily living in his memories. The way he wrinkles his forehead  while pulling  out a file, review the content inside  whether about him as a boy , a ladies’ man or his change of life  with religion. He  loves his stories , shares his stories . I wonder who will share mine?

The power of words

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When death is coming, what is the feeling one feels at that moment? Is the feeling different when another is taking the life versus one taking of self versus life just naturally ending?

Children of the sea has my core trembling with what ifs. I could have lived this story. My ancestors definitely lived this story. This story is happening around me through the internet.

The drive for freedom , the fear of torture full of delusional narratives , the dynamic shift of a family with elitist values mixed with fight or flight sending me into tears.

Children of the sea , nothing separting you from the stars but a dingy boat that is loaded beyond capacity in hopes of a tomorrow. Loving someone so deeply that you write, knowing there will never be a reunion in this life.

Children of the sea, the thirst for power overruling sense of humanity. The lust for dominance , the greed of money leading to acts that were taught through slavery used to bring curses into fruition.

I am only one chapter into Krik Krak and all that floods me is fear. A novel that should be fiction is full of the modern-day reality of our world. The past will never leave us because we prefer to ruminate in it instead of learning from it.

Forms & Forms

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The body is a form that is so interesting on how it can be honored in one culture and seen as ugly in another. I think about this as I go clothes shopping. I walk around the store looking at styles that I think I would like to try on because Europe is the land of no refund just exchanges. The clothes are tight.  My chest area is stretching the material that is supposed to be my size. I tried the top that is bigger than my size and now my chest is comfortable and my waist swimming in fabric. Dresses and pants cannot not  go over my thighs. If I get pass thigh level jumping its useless because the bum is not fitting . Let’s say the jump works the waist is not for my waist. I am not that curvaceous yet clothes shopping in Italy is only for the flat and thin-thin. 

I look at people’s forms here. I see women that  have little to no shape , looking frail and clothes holding their shapeless frame. I see women that have some shape only wearing stretchy  jeans and oversized tops because form fitting has forgotten them. I mainly see women that are struggling to stay thin by smoking and counting calories; a cappuccino is empty calories and yet for some, a meal. 

I look at the men and the bodies are two big extremes: super skinny guys  or poorly shaped guys. I am conditioned by my North American understanding of good physic . I look for men that are defined and sculpted which honestly are very few in Rome and most of Italy. People workout, however, the diet and regime are not to build muscle. I miss seeing men that looked sculpted from  precious stones . I miss eye candy.  Men here wear skinny jeans no difference to the States. I miss admiring men that look physically strong, not bodybuilder but lean muscular physical trainer strong. 

In this world my frame has no placement. I am considered too big, yet I wear what is considered a small in the States. I have a beautiful face and have  high desirability features;  the problem is it’s not enough for me. I require depth of my  beauty to my mind. My mind is missing the banter of interesting wit.

Why are Italians considered good lovers when they haven’t stamina ? Like any country there are always some who have it and many who wish they did. Women here are said to be “lifeless”, not my words.  They look at foreign women as “experienced”, again not my words. The sexualization of foreign women has been the narrative here even in modern  tv shows. Foreign women are temptress corrupting the  good Italian boy. She walks around with her confidence and somehow, she is a whore on the prowl for a good Italian boy. The idea that men here call themselves boy has always been odd to me, but that is a discussion for another day.

So, the foreign woman at times plays down her sexuality that is supposedly overpowering the men so their mothers can sleep at night. Sex is not that great , it more about the affection that they give. Over the years, I have heard and experienced enough to get this idea. Affection is why they are considered lovers. He may not be good at sex because his knowledge is based on what his culture told him what it is. The overly dramatized shows with half naked women, giggling about nothing with verbally abusive men that at times got physical with them. Every film has a cheating man that the woman takes back in the last 5 minutes of a ridiculous story.  Just like men in other countries . Here the idea is affectionate men that cheat yet don’t have much to really offer sexually but give affirmations of love are enough. It makes them keepers.

In contrast, Caribbean men are mostly full of stamina and sexual pleasure but no ideology of affection . The art of tantalizing a lover is considered unmanly. The culture is bursting with  lyrics of lust however the core moralities are of religion thanks to white Christian values via the United Kingdom. The men are seen as great lovers because they can fill the gap in the bedroom. Their form is of great curiosity and fetish in foreign lands.  Whether they know it or not they can find the spot and bang it to oblivion with dedication.  They can dismantle a woman’s life with a single move of the waist, yet his tenderness is kept at a distance. His nurture is not for show or hard to find. He is not big on holding hands  or overtly eccentric words of  devotion thus their form is what takes center stage. These types of men, these Caribbean men are my lineage for I am from the land of wood and water.

My country automatically creates these 5 Italian responses that I have heard over the last 10 years:

“ Che Bella Jamaica!”

“ ma… dov è Giamaica ( where is Jamaica)?”

 “Ah, Bob Marley!”

 “Marijuana !”

     and

 “…do they all have big dicks  because I saw the documentary on the tv”. *

This line of thought has mainly been men , men curious, men wondering about women with melanated glistening skin.  They wonder how they compare and some wonder if it is even worth finding out to understand if the sexual prose of a Caribbean men is true. They all have seen this illusive documentary that I haven’t found yet. This documentary that once aired on Italian tv putting fear into men to NOT bring their partners to Jamaica.  Since I have a form they are attracted to  and I have been with a Caribbean man that has the  form they feel is threatening.  These men fixate on the exotic superfreak ideas that are innate to them and thus I am placed within their category of  women to lust and fear. I pity them and at times tell them the tales they need to hear so the legend can live on. Be aware of the Jamaican man if you want to keep your girl.

 

 

 

*honorable mention response: “Impossible  that Usain Bolt is fast, its drugs , no?”



Conditionals

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My mom was depressed and wasn’t able to make use of her amazing insurance to get proper help. She had her faith and her quotes. She needed someone to talk to and it wasn’t me.

My mother was hurting and I didn’t understand however I felt it. I grew up hiding within myself dealing with my own confusion of adolescence and believed that my sister would be enough for support since they were so alike. My mother and sister looked alike. When we would go out , people would automatically understand they were mother and daughter regardless of the skin tone difference. When people saw me they would say, “You don’t look like your mother, is she your mother?” They would ask this as if a man is not needed to make a child. This sentence would trigger me so I would say I was adopted so they would walk away feeling satisfied in their ignorance. If I engaged in this conversation it would end with the person no longer speaking to me .

I was hurt every time someone verbalised this separation between my mother and I. It was if they were manifesting our separation. I was sullen and secretive of my feelings because like my mother and her mother before her and so on… no one spoke about their feelings, you just prayed them away.

I was distant with my mother for issues that she wasn’t aware of or she wasn’t sure how to address them in me. She would have my sister as her representative and I would feel agitated when she did that. I became protective of my intimacy and held everyone at two arms length although I only wanted their closeness.

We had a confounding relationship and yet I would destroy anyone for her and my sister. I didn’t know everything yet I tried to protect her with my distance and I also hurt her with my distance . I wanted to speak to my mother about everything that was troubling me yet she was working her main job and building her company while going through a divorce. I was in school. Our time never seemed to matched up. My sister was able to bond and I couldn’t and it bothered me.

When I was little , my mother was my best friend; I truly didn’t need anyone else. I don’t think I have ever advanced past this stage and have felt a betrayal because we grew up and life happened and she kept me out in order to keep me safe. I grew up wanting that quality to continue however her life changed and I could see it yet she never shared with me. So I hid within myself in my own home in plain sight. I hid with for my emotional safety and have left it on auto-pilot ever since .

Later in life she had told me she didn’t think we needed to know out of fear of hurting our wellbeing She grew up in a lovely home that was filled with trauma. I know parents think kids don’t see , but they do; I did. Telling ” white lies” is still a lie. I felt the energy of trauma yet I wasn’t sure of the details and no one would tell me outside of me ease dropping in adult conversations in passing and I would hear some of my relatives saying the worst things about my mother. In those moments I would plot my revenge as her protector and cause them hurt later with my words. I feel for my sister, trapped in the middle of this with her own developmental concerns while absorbing this energy of discontent. I wanted to save my family.

My mother was hurting , she cried often and in private. I have inherited this. She was a shy extrovert and her life propelled her into a fearful reclusive person. I became a risky introvert just to feel alive. We loved each other but I wish I could have done better. Death makes you time travel. I go through her books filled with her penmanship, with her loops and elegant P’s and Q’s. I learned her signature as a child mainly because I thought it was beautiful. I have her book of thoughts. I read her words and remember seeing her writing them. . All I have now is her handwritten thoughts. I think about the stories she had told us about her childhood and about bits of her life that she kept inside while raising her children. I remember all I saw with my overly observant eyes . We missed opportunities to repair and nourish our family of three.

My mother lived the majority of her life hurting and without proper support. My sister lives guarding her new little family in a reclusive way. I live a life going back to the past to have a future.

I feel like I am living a third conditional life.

impasse in the morning

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He’s staring at me then looks away. He saw me walking to the café and watched me walk in . I made my order, ” Un cappuccino senza schiuma, cornetto semplice e un succo di frutta( albioccia ) – a tavolo, grazie”. I paid and left to choose a seat. He was watching me again. Why do I feel awkward? I mentally wanted distance between me and him despite him being 10 feet away.

I sat and began to open my book. I was re-reading the same paragraph and feeling his gaze every now and then. Does he want to speak to me? I realized his gaze shifted a bit to the left of me . She was also avoiding his connection . He looks left and right , only at us and us at him and quickly at each other . We are doing this exchange with no malicious intent just indifference; we’re at an impasse.

The three of us are acculturating the breakfast culture knowingly. It is not the breakfast we would be having in our home countries. In fact, our meals would have been similar yet different and overall comforting to us all. Are they thinking like me or is it just the body language we share? The woman and I possible consciously or unconsciously are trying not to see him. He makes us know that he sees us. The guy who is watching is African. He’s dressed in a beige light jacket, polo and jeans . He placed his backpack along a tree as he leaned on a car in front of the entrance way of the bar , speaking softly into his earphones; waiting for change from passerby and people leaving the bar. He’s chill and his presence somehow changes things.

I begin to think about my privilege, I’m struggling inside. Why do I feel an unrest of his presence? It’s stupid. The waiter arrives with my sweet simple breakfast and I take a sip of water. I look at it. I say to myself -this is not a breakfast. A real breakfast would be ackee and saltfish with a side of fried dumplings ,freshly kneaded, with boiled banana. I like my idea of breakfast however I live here.

I wonder about his origins. What would his breakfast be if he was home? Does he ever make or have that breakfast here? I know he had an Italian breakfast before waiting for change. He also does as the Romans do. I began to wonder if he got bamboozled into believing he would be better in Europe or came on a dream. Since the gate keeper is Italy he probably got stuck here. Most , if not all are trying to go north to other countries. There are fewer migrants now in Italy -barely in fact. The possibility of a balanced life here as a migrate requires pure blessings and beauty.

She was maneuvering her phone, not for a selfie, but for a way to block her connection with him. I wondered about her breakfast too. Would it have more substance and heartiness? Does he make her think about home? It’s like he reminds her that she is a foreigner too. She’s North African. She is dressed conservatively modern with a cream blush hijab. She’s lighter than the guy and I. He just glances at us from time to time and talks nonchalantly on his phone and it’s powerful. Is he unbothered or is this happening? At one point she held her phone closer to her face and then decided to lay it down bending her neck with all her might . I think she feels as I do, her body language screams it . We see each other and avoid each other at the same time. Why are we dissociating ?

This is not the only time I have seen a person of ethnicity and looked away or stared at them with great anticipation here. The disassociation I learned from growing up Caribbean and living in the States has molded this doctrine into my upbringing. Many Jamaicans disassociate from Africans and African Americans and vice versa. In the last few years the division has started to lose some of its foundation. It is so engrained in us , mainly from colonization, to stay disconnected from each other . The disconnection reduces our abilities to create healthy economical, sociological and community bonds with the African diaspora . We are the latents in Octavia Butler novel Mind of Mind. The book is about telepathic people that were repulsed and magnetically attracted to each other. The father of them all had never tried to improve their relations thus they had to find a way to unite and be at peace with each other. I had to unlearn much prejudices taught to me and had adopted a way similar to Mind of Mind. I was free.

I remember my first year in Rome, when all thing were’ Bella Vita”. An Italian colleague at the time and I were chatting at a bar, similar to this one. A charismatic African guy was waiting for change. I asked him his name and what brought him to Italy. I wanted to know his story. My Italian was basic so I was relieved that he knew English. My colleague scolded me for speaking to him, ” Don’t do that , it will encourage them to interact more” and in a second breathe expressed that he was a volunteer for Red Cross for over 4 years and he felt so fulfilled with his work.

The experience was discomforting . I saw it over and over again and eventually I disassociated again. I had believed I was immune to such behaviour. I felt discomfort every time I did it. I wanted them to have what I had or more yet I mentally pushed them away. The inner fights of disowning their blackness from mine plagued me for the latter years here. I had an Italian partner, was adopting Italian ways with my Westernized friends and Italian family. I didn’t take the time to understand the impairment I had built separating me from my openness. I had lost some of me.

The Italian breakfast is a fleeting experience and so I was left with my thoughts , at this table , with this man and woman in a telepathic gaze standoff. I collected my things and gave him a couple euros. He smiled , ”Have a nice day, miss”. I smiled back. I turned to our other counterpart at the table and smiled , she smiled back. We had a chance and didn’t take it. If the circumstances were different we could have chatted together….possible , maybe.

Take a look

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Of all places to take a rest in a plastic white chair

We had nothing to really do while waiting for the laptop to complete 1100 updates on Windows. Living on the edge of city and country can led to places like this.

It was once a mining area for a particular type of stone that I , non geologist , have forgotten the name .

beauty of rusted metal in nature
CONTOUR MODELLING

Maybe it’s the countless years of cloud watching or possible a cognitive displacement of feeling but I see a face in the rocks.

Have I failed you or you me?

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It’s 1.49 am and I cannot sleep. I hear him drawn in air deeply while my mind is racing with images of people in ICU, hooked up to machines. I begin to have flashbacks to my time at Grady the experience had left a great impression on me. Healthcare is key.

I think of my mommy unable to speak or even acknowledge me, hooked up to many machines and being told it is time. Do I want it to be time? She hasn’t told me her final words yet. She didn’t get to make eye contact with me once more or say ” Mommy loves You .

I miss my mommy. She is/was all that I had and have in this life. I lost my home in 2018 August. She cannot come back only in a memory treasure chest. I can hear her ever so slightly. What if I forget her? Is she looking at me now ? God I hope yes and no. I feel as if I missed my potential in the last few years. I stop writing because I was getting lovin’. I thought I was achieving a particular aspect of my life that didn’t require sad writing which has been my best writing.

I have never learned to harness the power of feeling into creating only in sorrow. I began to wonder is artistry is only truly beautiful when in pain.

It can be done without. I have refused to know probably out of fear of not having my anxiety of anxiety with me . It is my oldest comrade. I have to end our relationship. I know how just not sure of the why. I must give my anxiety closure so it cannot return. So it doesn’t follow my social media under an allies , stalk my daily routine or sabotage me to get revenge.

Dear Anxiety,

You have been a close relation of mine since I was a child. I remember you being there when I wanted a father. When I felt invisible to my mom because my younger sister required more attention. When we moved every few years, never having roots outside of Jamaica. When I had my first infatuation and planned our life together, as well as my 2nd, 3rd all the way to the one laying near me now. He is blissfully sleeping . He is blissfully not our last. Better I say he is our last . I am leaving you with him or you can be free.

I cannot take you with me anymore ; you stunt my judgement. You scare me from risk and push me into solitude of another kind. I need space to know me without you. The virus is making me think of what needs to be corrected in me. Who I need and who I cannot be with anymore…. I am breaking up with you. For my sake of growth. For the possibility my mother is watching me . I believe she is watching me. She is always saying my smart girl always doing crazy things. She laughs showing her big pearly whites. She had the best laugh. I can see her now doing it. – I miss her.

So I got to let you go.

You have taught me much. You have pushed me against my natural instincts. You have shown me what damage you can do to a body and a soul- you are strong .

Good bye.

Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.

Anaïs Nin

I’m Alice

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I fell down a rabbit hole a year and a half ago. All that I thought would be a constant for many more years was taken away . I decided to travel and have adventures because my mom was a shy traveller . My relatives have always been superstitious and restricting. They were kill joy types, pushing church and obeah in one breathe. They manipulated their version of love to obtain control. My mother was raised in this environment with a mother and a father and many siblings. She was in some ways a Cinderella .

About 7 years ago , she had a health scare . She was in the UK for holiday and fell ill . When she spoke to her sister, who is suppose to be able to see the future, she told my mom it was witchcraft. She told her that being far from them had brought on the respiratory problems. She didnt express loving concern about my mom just DOOM. After these words of damanation, my mom went to hospital. The doctors discovered she was highly allergic to the pollen. Case Closed.

I think about this moment because it’s when arrived my Fuck all attitude on who makes a family and how I want to live. I had been cleaning up my house and discovered a very old journal of a 10yrs old me. She wrote with big loopy cursive letters, stylish capitals “T, S, F and Z.” ….( she loved making the Z’s). This little person was a part of a reading club; Book IT.

BookIT was a program that encouraged reading with a reward system. Lil me was already an accomplished reader so it was super easy. I surpassed the amount each month earning stuff and food. Being a Caribbean child in “foreign” USA; we didn’t trust nor eat fast food. If it wasn’t cooked in an island home of association then it wasn’t good. Anyway, I earned a pizza at PizzaHut. I had convinced my mom that we should try it. I had never tasted a pizza before so I was impressed( I was 10! , it seemed good at the time).

I took a bite , liked it and asked the guy who worked there , where did this come from? “Italy”, he said smiling. I ate my pizza looked at my mom and told her I will one day go to the land of the people who make pizza. She smiled showing her big pearly whites. Never did I think I would be living in that land of Regina Margherita for almost 5 years now.

I remember buying the ticket for an European tour after being pissed at my boss. My mom and I spoke a bit about me leaving to do life abroad since all the future held for us was DOOM. She was scared for me and yet was proud that I did it. I wanted to break this mentality of what we can and cannot do.

She was the reason I really left. I wanted to live for her when she was unable to because of work. She was getting ready to retire two yrs ago. She made the transition from Head Nurse to Retired Mom when she got sick. We did what could be done. It was strong, it was mysterious and doctors were baffled. It wasn’t until the end they figured it out. Cancer stole her retirement. Cancer stole my Home. Cancer took my mom away .

I miss her.

I am currently climbing out of the rabbit hole. I pause at times to grasp the reality that life is continuing regardless. When I say the word home, it feels hollow. I feel truly nomadic now. I am from the West Indies, I have the DNA of a stolen people, the soul of night women , a heritage rich in color, food, music, sexuality , supersition and pride…..and some how I feel homeless.

Now who will say things like ” Who will be Diego?, We’re both ladies”.

“Nothing is worth more than laughter. It is strength to laugh and to abandon oneself, to be light. Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing.”~Frida Kahlo