Standing in our collective kitchen, she looms over a warm stove preparing a hot meal
as her grandchildren bound at her feet. A heavenly aroma of herbs and oil fill our home, as SA and the band practice their repertoire in the other room. The drum kit beats a rhythmic tune as music pours out of the front door and on to 22nd Street. On the grass in the front yard, a 13-year-old and myself attempt to bump, set and spike a volleyball - mainly just sending the ball haphazardly flying over the metal fence and onto the awaiting cars parked along the curb. It's a lot of laughter and a little exercise. I tell her that I wish we all lived together like this ~ just as it was meant to bee.
On these brilliant summer mornings at this end of July, we sit together in the alcove, drinking from dainty tea cups thick, black Armenian coffee. I gesture my cup and saucer to her, gently requesting that she do as we have done since we first met just a few months back. Taking the pink ceramic cup from my hand, she turns it over in hers while reading the grains as they lay dry and in a myriad of patterns within the now empty vessel. "Did you cry?" she drawls in her thick accent. "Not yet," I respond, speaking to the fear that sits deep in my being and, of which, my cup from day's past pointed out. "I see that you have broken through. There is an opening, a movement, a shift," she tells.
She shifts the weight of her curvaceous body while we sit together on the black and white futon. Her only daughter bounds down the wooden staircase, ready for work. "Morning," she coos, as she munches on a yellow banana. She is my dearest of activist sisters. We've only lived together for a few months - however, I can't imagine living a day without her. She gives to me what I so easily give out to others. "I'm proud of you," she'll sweetly chirp. "I love you. How are you?" Without being asked, she offers me assistance in my ongoing endeavors, like editing my resume and cover letters, as well as holding deep space for me to easily share the daily triumphs, nuances and failures that make up my life. Our divine friendship a gift from God and a root that allows me to grow up and out, expanding my once-furrowed brow and inspiring me to reach beyond my own self-perceived limitations.
Everyday, I rise early and tend to the chickens. I sing their names, replenish their water and give them more food by way of the vermicompost pile. While my skin soaks in the rising sun's rays, my eyes greedily take in the languishing garden - soon, I will be knee deep in soil and seeds, in canning and preservation. Not yet, however. Now, there's just this - a reaping of all of the joy that my diligent spirit has spent years sowing.
And, my sister's mama's words echo in my bodymind, as the vision of her head bent over my teacup recedes into the distance of my memory.
"I SEE LOVE."
(Celebrate Lammas Day and the Full Moon!)
