Two Generations Before Me

That old man who could tell stories told to him about his grandparents as slaves.

That old woman who ate with her fingers, wore head scarfs, made her own clothes.

Who had not a clue that her style, her mannerisms were programmed by ancestors in the Motherland?

That old woman, that old man were depositories of intimate antiquity to me. 

Oral purveyors of my family’s history.

They weren’t strangers in a museum, curators of articles not familiar to them.

They used those articles from times gone by; those articles not powered by electricity, but by twisting, turning, and hammering earnestly.

They were people who I knew, loved, and were close to me.

They were my grandparents, placed by destiny two generations before me that I could hear, touch, and see. My father, my mother, uncles, and aunts, not endowed with the historic jewels of my grandparents, but old enough to have wisdom of the ages running through their veins.

And although their wisdom was not as fermented as that of the old man and the old woman it was endowed with its own value

Although slavery was not in their inventory of experiences, their experiences of entering through back doors, sitting in separate spaces, working for dollars that didn’t add up to wages were much the same as the old man and old woman.

They survived and thrived too, sacrificing for my benefit.

Those two layers are gone now, erased by the passage of time.

Their love and compassion are instilled within me, forever mine

I hope to see them all someday to say thank you, just to say thank you after all this passage of time. I’m old and blessed…hope you will be too.