Ritual is not specific to any race, ethnicity, culture, way of life or person.
Tradition, if not engrained and present, is despair.  
I remember moments in youth:
pungent, exultant,
bike riding sand castle building,
good old fashioned fun.  
I remember some moments of ten to fifteen years ago, I remember moments from 6 to 7 months ago.  
I've forgotten some.

I opened, read, and placed the money aside
from graduation cards.  I was surprised when I opened a card
received from campus ministry leader with no money, only a sweet note.
I counted the money happily, twenty dollar bills, fifty dollar bills, seventy-five dollar checks.
I checked my text messages, every seventy-five seconds
and heart skipped, slipped a beat when my mother calls and says
she's driving to Canada, she's got to get a way.

Really she's locked herself up at the Econo Lodge behind Big Boy's
only, approximately, eight minutes away.
And we drive up, and she presses her face to the motel window, door locked secure, and I press my hand up to the window.
But she won't let me in.  
She consumes, she consumed.
But she wouldn't let me in.

When I come home from my first year of school
I will tell her
I am an actress, too.

I know some folks.
They sink down.
Sinking dirt into the ground,
landslide and erosion.  
Buildings, structures depressed and falling in.
Make yourself bigger, I advise.  
Open your eyes, blink quickly between the palms of your hands,
face a window, if it helps.
See the light.
Did you see the light? I did.

Repression,
hold.
Hold.
Keep holding,
hold on tight to your bike handlebars.
Hold on to the straps of your book-bag until
your elbows cramp up stiff.
Hold on to your blankie,
rub it all over your body.
Inhale,
do not suffocate.

Exhale,
and feel good and bright.  
You've done something good for yourself.
Feel good about that.  
You've just brightened up your whole house.