Black Diamond
11/12/22
Morning. I’m looking out over the blue and brown shores of the Savannah river. The air soft and smooth, like the tiny pearl shells that stud the dark sand.
Honey crips apples and squishy cheese, my turquoise and hot pink silk dress billowing around like an alter about to set sail in the salty, wet air.
Ozie and Baba bend over a lego set. Their voices may not be related by blood but they make the most natural harmony, one a sunny chirp, the other a deep river.
The Pelicans fly past, their triangle wings sparkle in the butter-yellow sunlight. Circling in their ancient pattern.
I wonder if the cool hands of the ocean are enough to sooth the sharp edges of my doubt, unfurl the talons of my mind. Worn grooves. Old helpers. Like outdated war birds, soaring, dive bombing, demolishing threats but also burning down the terrifying risk of joy.
Ozilline’s flame-red tipped hair and firecracker body, flying so easily across the hard sand. Her footprints like sun rays. They follow Baba’s, stopping at every hollowed out shell, each empty claw and salt laden feather.
We come together now to follow the mishmash tracks of sea creatures who rose up in the silver glow of dawn, their paths shaped by a knowing old as the stars. Dragging their small bodies to safety, burrowing out tiny holes and leaving flowery fluffs of sand as fine as moon dust.
They leave the sweet arms of the sea, knowing exactly where they are going. They might make it. They might die trying. But they do it nonetheless.
Ozie’s shiny, turtle shell eyes catch the green blue bounce of the waves. Yesterday a teacher said, ‘Happy birthday! Your last single digit!'
Nine. Nine!
Then there will be ten. And her hand one size closer to mine. But wasn’t it just the other morning, in the bright blue hospital, her tiny moon face on my chest, and I look down and it’s like looking into the eyes of all the Goddesses. Her snootchy face and belly laugh, sparkling with soul-shaking light. An unconditional love that all the songs can never describe. All the me’s that tried so hard to burn out before thirty-five now held by one, tiny soft finger of Amazing Grace.
And me and Baba, dragging our selves across the sand. Our queer, tide worn bodies shaky but hopeful. And me. Carrie. Can I set out above and find a new pattern of flight beyond the love that saved me?
Maybe. Maybe not. But I might find the tiny flecks, those black diamond moments, when I remember and allow the deep breath, shrugging off the exhausting certainty that I’m in control, lying down under the midnight sky from which we all came, and sink down into the cool, wet sandy magic of the unknown.