One morning we were all gone, roots torn out by a giant wind.
Buried in the place, deep in the earth, memories remain untouched: the treasure of childhood. They exist in fragments of a couple of scribblings. The occasional reunion draws them out and they live in that exquisite moment of laughter and, the not so, where they ride out vociferous with pain.
The music on the turntable surprises me and tunes me into the ghosts that dream in the sky and earth of Africa. They were happy times. I am ambushed by another thought – when I look back, they were times bent out of hue by the context of privilege. I am snagged, torn in two, by a place where discrimination and injustice scorched the skin and burned the landscape. Straddling both now becomes impossible to hold in my head.
Excavated memories in the archaeology of a childhood are returned to the earth waiting for another time. The giant wind roars in the distance. Our roots are simply memories.