letter 3 of 19.
you are not yet aware of your magic. the intensity of your voice. a subtle one that swallows and strings together sentences, only to regurgitate them back in a way that allows me to hear myself.
the gentle voice that rises in pitch when you find excitement in examining condo closets and the contents of moving bins. reminding us of the possibilities in exhuming unexplored areas that we inhibit. physical realms and spiritual ones that reside in our very skin. how captivating it is to watch you fall into boxes and find your way off course in the universe of clothes you have left behind and toys you have yet to play with. you find happiness in the middle of it all; the center of outgrown and still growing.
the squeals and small yay’s for us to remember how to celebrate the everyday discoveries, even if it appears as if we’re lost. even if no one else sees the grandiosity in our findings.
you are not yet aware of your teaching abilities.
there lies a range of expression that quietly roars when you’re frustrated, forcing me to help you, help me, understand how to channel emotions down healthy avenues. an aggression that requires discipline, birthed from your mother. and her mother. and hers. generational rage that affect how we mother our daughters. you teach me of the ways our choices determine where we place the commas and periods to our stories. i make vows to end cycles that start with you and stops with us. in watching you this year, i am more understanding of our lineage.
a collection of mouthy women
who
throw their hands up
from tantrums
and in tandem
with hallelujahs and “someone hear me.”
we are to be women
who
demand being heard.
by pouting.
by pen.
by prayer.
it’s beautiful to study the history of us because of you. it’s fascinating to see us through you.
you are not yet aware of how you make him gush. or maybe you do. there is no other word you use more than “daddy”. a spirit of nostalgia awakens and dances inside of you, illuminating in a way that carries your father back to his own childhood. he sees so much of home in the islands. home in your face. his face in yours.
shared eyes. kindred spirits. there lies the origin of your curiosity listening to the stories of childhood adventures through the lesser known parts of the Caribbean. and there! you get that assertive, boss-like authority from his own acts of rebellion back in primary school. watching you drag your brothers along for play or another bout of ‘Moana’. your father may you otherwise.
you are his reflection, re-exposing him to the lighter parts of him. piecing him together to bring him newfound, or long lost, peace.
we have become more cognizant of your surroundings this year:
planting you in a new home to raise in. planting you in the middle of how to rebuild a mother and a father. you are the mustard seed that moves mountains.
your laughs are hymns on random weekdays.
you are
the path that diverts.
walking with the bowlegs
and pigeon toes
of your grandmother.
in the size 7’s
of your mother
you are the
child raising the village.
you are
budding.
blossoming.
becoming.
two days into this new year, you are two! you have left a lifetime of lessons as a magician. a masterclass. a mirror.
happy birthday, monster. maybe time can slow down just a bit this year?
❤ mommy.
