By | 1 February 2022
In a woman’s hands did I meet God branching into ancestors who sung beneath trees, sat among waterfalls, journeyed towards a mountain’s peak, and whispered a message to the wind. They asked her to visit a place her great grandparents forgot in the ruin of rice fields and bamboo huts.

She saw stories in a pot of tomatoes finally in fruition, the first offering after generations of destruction – the beating of the flesh, a subduing by men who cultivated customs taken from different lands.

Women, she met, taught her how to be still. To break open in daylight. To tap into a reservoir of pain repressed by a dam of generations laid like stones. What life can she have when they are released?

One day, she will wake up to a child kissing her forehead, a stillness she has known in a garden revived, and a harvest to nourish descendants walking out of her. They will learn the message she brought out in poems.

Her hands would have collected more lines in climbing trees, soaking in rivers and waterfalls, and scaling mountains. She will close her eyes and meet ancestors in the cold:

Welcome home.


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