I miss you so very much and it’s only been a week. I miss your face. Your face is a serene sphinx, the exact color of sand as old as sight. In place of earthen eyes are revealed two emerald tendrils. They coil into you and reflect your verdant truth. Tender shoots of knowing. Sweet sprigs of grace. I absolutely miss looking at my friend, and being seen by you.
Amsterdam is wet, and a couple pleasant notches above cold. I am presently at a restaurant called “Chicano’s” owned by a rude, boisterous cerdo of a man from a land nowhere near latinamerica. He is Kurdish. Talks down to each employee I’ve seen, especially the one woman who hasn’t quit yet. He stands on this street hollering at passersby, guessing where they’re from, trying to aggressively pull them into his establishment in what he surmises to be their native tongue, assuming insight around their cultural interests and sensibilities. “Hey! Come in! We’re gay friendly!” he squawked. The women walking by at the time had short haircuts. In a flash of better judgement, he’s hired a devastatingly handsome young European to do most of his tourist vetting at the precipice of business and traffic. He is 29, with the charm of Ferris Bueller and the eyes of Jared Leto. He lured me here within the space of the following exchange:
el: Hey! Lady from Jamaica!!
yo: (smirking) I am not. From Jamaica.
el: from the states??! Come eat here!! Woah! You gotta lotta tattoos, you in a gang or something?
yo: yes, of course. a murderer on the run from the authorities.
el: (laughs and gives a knee buckling wink paired with a lip bite)
yo: ugghh. ok. I’ll have a seat. There’s wifi yes?
el: (in a playful french accent) of course, Madame
And then began this letter to you. A few have asked me “love letter to your guy?” “Even better. My best friend”.
Last night, I had a dream that I was informed I was pregnant. It was a glowing feeling wrapped in holy terror. In the dream, I skipped the grotesque misery of birth giving and was magically whisked past the horrifying hippopotamus days of gestation into post partum bliss. She was in my arms, perhaps aged a week. She was obviously half white and in the dream she belonged to a man we both know with whom I could never procreate. Nevertheless, her unimaginable reality couldn’t take away from her beauty. She was perfect. She looked right into me. I can see her serious face as I write this to you. I looked at her and anything awful I’d ever felt entirely dissolved and receded into a kingdom that never existed, nor was ever imagined. It was as if I were as newborn as she.
I woke up missing her with an unfamiliar breed of sadness.
I write this to you now because I know somewhere within you and this planet, you want to be a mother someday.
I believe You would be the very best mother I’d ever know. You already are to so many.
Care taker. Friend. Daughter. Teacher. Sister. Lover. Cousin. Photographer. Singer. Connector. Peace maker. Truth seeker. Balance provider. Traveller. Enchantress. Life giver. Laugh maker. Light worker. I could go on and on.
For many women, poof! Mother gets added to their list. Often accidental, and is usually paired with either fisted resentment or hollow self aggrandizement, or both. You, however, in your first amazing motherly act have chosen to wait for all the stars to align. Or at least most of them.
As I am sitting, just now, a family of five just walked in with a child of 6 or 7 years. The eldest daughter of 16, maybe, and of dark hair and temperament sighed into her lapel saying “It’s not fair the family has to suffer because she can’t sit still” The group gave a collective eye roll and turned toward the culprit’s general direction. She was laughing, jumping jacks, and simultaneously shooting everyone with her index finger artillery. “Please, not tonight, Emma”, one of the adults pleaded, in a weightless, waxy tone that suggested the speaker was defeated before the sentence found its end. The family forged ahead, apprehensive of the next hour and what shameful, unpunishable chaos the little billy goat may have cued in her hooves.
And she, dancing all the green mile, reveling in her own mischief music, like Pan himself.
My first thought was “Diana would dig this kid, and she’d know exactly how to speak her language”
Children this misunderstood need pastures as possible as you.