I was once afraid
that the forgotten stories of my ancestors
would be forever lost.
That the silk that knits my DNA together
would disintegrate into the soi/ul
and never find form again.
That by losing site of my relations
they too would lose sight of me.
And like the single fish in the bowl by your bedside,
I too would become displaced from my part in the greater story of things.
And that through my American quest to find independence
I would become a self-made orphan.
Now I believe
that the forgotten stories are still alive
and if I am really quiet
when planting my radishes
or knitting a hat
or stringing red chili peppers,
I can hear them drumming.
And if I am really joyful
when dancing circles around my dog
or playing pattycake with a friend
or walking in the woods with a lover,
I can hear them singing.
Do not worry,
they are saying,
Your laugh is the result of all of our love,
And your dance is our collective heartbeat,
And your movement is the vessel of our story.
Day 9 Poetry Challenge :: Ask a family member to tell you a story of someone in your family who is no longer alive. After hearing the story, write a poem.
