Maybe this is it.
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.