The braid

They all said I'd have to choose -

    one strand or the other. I could not 

be both. As though I could sever

my memory from my faith. You see, 

my culture is part of the path Jehovah allowed

me to walk, from my softness to my enduring

strength.

But I cannot unravel so I braid instead.

One strand is part of my history -

earthy stories intertwined into my core, 

from those who sang in languages 

cut in the heavy wind, lost to many 

but not in my bones.

One strand is my fire that is buried

within. It stands for the pain I turned into art,

flour creased skin and words across pages

of time. No one would expect this survivor

to still write with a loving conscious. 

One strand is my free soaring spirit - 

   the one tethered to Jehovah. Who knew 

my being shaped in secret and cuttings

of scraped silences. Jehovah still calls me 

his child, whole.

I weave each strand.

   A truth.  Each knot, a prayer.

This braid is not just me, but that of

   my mother's, my foremothers, my sisters,

my daughter's who still, do no know my

glass encrusted path on which I never gave

up on. Only to keep everything thriving and 

without deserting the vow I made 

to myself.

So if a day arrives, and one comes before me,

uncertain of their place, be clear: I will not 

tell them a choice is to be made.

I will just pat the seat next to me, in front of

me with comb in hand. Only to begin to teach 

them how to weave a braid.