like being dragged in mud
with a narrow thread.
I grip on and always manage
to reach there,
where once my family were as one.
I wadded through this thick sludge
in the direction of their laughter
and calling me.
When I arrived,
they had gone, but the house was
just as it was when we left back then in 1972…
A burnt out shell of rustic brick and sorrow.
I walked through the rooms of echoes
finding toys and curios of past,
and the old tin bath still clung to the wall.
I listen to the residual whispers of happiness
sadness and fear as I hunt in each room,
then I came to the parlour,
I stall, hesitant to go in there
yet knowing that I must.
But there he was, as alive as you and me!
Telling me he wasn’t dead.
I cried with joy as we walked
Out into the vesting street,
where our old betraying neighbours
lowered their heads in shame.
I wanted to scream at them…
“You didn’t kill him, look, he’s alive!”
But he tugs my hand and we walk on.
I wake up with a damp cheek and pillow
And search for him through my tears.
Credit for this great quote below goes to
Tammy knott.
"Though the black man may strugle,
God still shines his light on him"
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
Illuminated *KT*
you and say I understand, the anger and the pain you hold, it is an unfair death in an unfair world and hope for the changes there to become real for everyone. Hold onto your memories of him alive and smiling at you. Love, C
