November 22, 2014
I was catapulted through the stages of grief to arrive in time for celebration.
I woke thinking, feeling, knowing —- this is soul music. Soul music.
Watched an older brother wax poetic clutching the corner of a page and laughed as the uncle teased that his larger paper promised briefer comments
— Each of their words poetry worthy of wisdom books.
And the Garifuna traditions I grew up in served me well.
In the place of the Punta drums was a choir whose sopranos trumpeted and tenor section thundered. In the place of Punta dancers were snapshots and images, the most vivid–a motorcycle ride with a glance back over the shoulder. In the place of ocean and palm leaves, navy and green. In the place of the praying women, lamenting novenas like wailing, was my sister Daphne calling down healing.
And when the Isibindi babies–both big and small–framed the path that would take him to his final rest, the sun gleamed and the green seemed to glitter and I smiled at the place of honor given to the next generation, the charge of an ancestor to his descendants: Do more.
And I move toward what awaits thinking, feeling and knowing that that was Spirit Day.