by Constance Strickland

Granny passed away Saturday, September 5th, 2020 in the evening surrounded by her kids, grandkids, and great-grandchildren. A Titan who only spoke truth and never bent on who she was. A powerful woman who worked hard her whole life, but I didn’t know her whole story. I listened and knew the basics and granny never spoke the whole past, it came in pieces and I never got her full story. I can only honor my granny by urging other women to tell their stories. Do not leave your story up for grabs nor to be washed away by time. As I continue to absorb my mother’s story; I find and tell my story and through those actions, I may just tell my granny’s story too. Tell your story even if it seems you have no story at all. Archive your life, leave it for the future, leave it for those who come after. Undisputedly.

I come from a stock of women who tell their own stories in code. 

Each never fully aware of their self-power. 

Nomads__

Who walk with their ideas of freedom stamped upon their foreheads.

So__

I paint my face to reveal the brutal scars of war.

The mirror no longer my enemy-

is now, my friend.

I recognize the contour features of my ancestors,

My reflection revealing how much I can bear.

Memories of tribal wars, broken stories, and abandon homes.

Yet, what still to lives in memory is

the deep crescendoing laughter of song, and dance filled with hope.

For now__

I fight to eat and the chance to dance. 

I begin to realize my reflection is her face.

I know the woman who appears before me.

Silent. She does not speak. 

Silent. I do not speak. 

This stranger so familiar

I can’t touch her. 

She is cold. I reach out to hold her 

 I can’t reach her…

this woman

who looks like me.

What lingers, a women’s fear of death and life?

No___ 

She still remembers:

There once was a time when she came through space like fire!

A bright, fierce, unstoppable Afro haired girl

covered in wildflowers-

wearing…

a tattered dress, listening to an old beat-up boombox.

Soooo freeeee