When I was a child, my mother always feared I would wander off. So she kept an eye on me, said Tisha, your feet are too rapid. Footprint too swift to sink in soft soil.
She remembers how I made circles of her womb, how I would fall gracefully from the steep heels of our couch, jump from one arm to another, like goats skipping mountains. Said that I would dance unprovoked, like I was pricked by pin drop silence.
But I was moving towards the rhythm you see. Distant, the song of descendants or my ancestry, I could not tell. But I knew this was some sort of artistry. Indeed, she doubted my loyalty to her voice, said she couldn’t hear the things that drew me away.
I am now old enough, old enough to be my own voice. But here I am. Looking for her. To remind me of the rebellion I mixed so well with my innocence. The days I turned baby food to baby fuel, followed the Milky Way in her breast milk. For the galaxies we once roamed in father’s balcony are now tucked far away from me. I have been busy, busy growing up. Being a man.
Being an adult, I traded all my toys for tools. I now sit in a box with a noose for a tie. I’m the gift lost in too many wrappings. Covered in all this life happening to me, but never happening for me. I’m losing the child within, bringing cradle to the grave. My heart doesn’t beat like it used to. It is chained to the rhythm of another. I thought I would always dance before millions. But all I am scraping for now are memories from the audience of one – my mother.
