I will pick up the whispers over the dry patches of land amongst the chaparral

the womxn who births over the earth in a dense city bears the name of “mother” when I call out

The long fabric roll unfolds her story and the those of the ones she calls “brother” and “nana”. Crafty hands and animal loving eyes set to see the sunrise over the North American sky reflect its light over the railroad fabric and back into my eyes

I pick up the radio waves, the ones my cousins, my friends, my sibling and my grandparents heard as they serenaded each other or played music in the living room . It was always static I could never make it out. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz

A static buzz was all I could hear for a very long time.

Then the two bars of 8 beats for salsa; the 4/4 ballads I always giggled and stumbled my way through at parties when the old folks got up to dance, and I would grab my one of my best friends and give it a go

the endless ways in which I was taught to feel the world around me, to weave myself into the music, into words, into this earth and into light begins to carry me through hard seasons,
and I understand now if life is meaningless, If I am only an irrelevant speck in this cosmic ocean the best “****  you” the ultimate undoing of this
is to live a life of meaning, and burn bright and authentically until there is nothing left and this existence is enough

(in truth it has always been enough)