This language thing.
This sharing thing.
All our thoughts and dots
Absorbed into one spot.
The air in the antique room.
Blue china, decorated doll house of a life lived serving.
Teaching others to read.
To seed their own passions while neglecting one’s own.
I looked at my ancestral tree tonight and came up with a knot.
All roads lead to Mississippi.
Southerners don’t get out of their hometowns.
Not in 1875.
I asked my mother where my gifts came from.
The passion to speak a truth I know not.
To seek the fruit I have not forgot.
Yet have seemingly never possessed.
I spoke to her about reincarnation.
Her Southern Baptist heart opened for a moment.
We spoke of our souls coming from another.
Was I the journalist? Was I the professor?
Was I the preacher? Was I the gambler?
Was I the farmhand? Was I the mason?
Questions asked for thousands of years she said.
Spoken from the mouth of a woman who birthed my head.
My words did not fall on deaf ears.
A mother and son peering deeply into the unknown.