Issue Fourteen (Dec 2009)
Let us begin with my earliest memory as a lady: Daddy had complained to Iyay who was my yaya (and his yaya before and his mama’s yaya before that) that I was lacking something strong in my bones and in my hips.
Drizzle and mist press down as I step off the bus in my grandfather’s pea coat with my grandmother’s black suitcase in hand. It’s a two-mile walk to the house on High Street, and although I don’t exactly know the way, the church bells that chime every quarter-hour give me some pretty clear direction.
Every headstone in the graveyard bore the name Anna Lee.
A young woman wandered through that graveyard. Her hair was well-coiled, blonde tresses worked into springs that bounced around a usually bright face. Her nose was small and pointed slightly upwards in a buttonish way. Her limbs were thin, not gaunt but thin, though she seemed even smaller in the red dress that flounced around her. She kept her skirts up away from the black mud with dainty little hands. Her eyes were green and they streaked from stone to stone, seeing that name under crosses and embossed on hard, square blocks of night grey stone.
I watched Mom watch Zee, waiting for the tension to crack and approval to wash forth.
As I scratched my beard, Mom sipped her coffee, eyes glancing over my partner, taking in every detail. Zee, bless him, just smiled back without a care in the world. His hair draped off his shoulders like a curtain of black agate. He had a sharply trimmed goatee and mustache that set off his deep indigo skin nicely. He wore a plain white t-shirt with khaki shorts. His hairy, muscular legs, the midnight blue of a twilight sky, were folded. He hovered about five inches above the sofa.
We often dismiss dreams as events popping up at night from the dark recesses of mind. However, there are times when dreams make you think about their meanings, when dreams have an impact on your life.
I can recall my dreams from as young an age as six. My dreams ranged from the mundane to spiritual, and often to the prophetic – dreams that make one think about their origin, and utility.