Another lovely young black man, senselessly gunned down by people who are supposed to be protecting the populace. How could anyone think it was justified? His girlfriend and her four year old daughter were in the car. This is insane. Driving, walking, breathing while black should not be a killing offense. Parents should not have to be afraid for their children, wives for their husbands, every single day. This has got to stop. And if the officer is so afraid, then perhaps he/she doesn’t have the temperament to BE in law enforcement.
I know that my loved ones are not truly dead, not just because I can feel them near, but because they dwell in the very heart and soul of the divine. Every bit of love they ever had is still there, but like coal under pressure, it has turned, with their passing, into something rare and strange. I do feel sometimes as if they’re all around me.
And perhaps, when we sleep, the starstuff of our souls ascends to the heart of the divine, to be with the starstuff of our loved ones.
And that’s what makes the stars twinkle at night.
I am the child of immigrants. My parents are children of immigrants, driven across the Atlantic by the hope, the dream of something better for themselves, their families.
My grandfather was a quarrier, holding the spike in one hand and driving the sixteen pound sledge with the other. Grandma was a weaver, weaving plaids at the woolen mill. They packed up four children and moved west from Scotland to Burnaby. The oldest child was left behind, the grandparents being unwilling to part from the whole family. The second oldest was left behind, too, resting quiet in a cemetery, lost to influenza at the age of two.
Paternal great-grandfather was an adventurer, born in Poland and always looking for the next thing. He took his three children to the US, immigrating to Canada through Chicago, leaving one daughter in New Jersey, enlisting his son in the Navy to keep him from being a “trouble maker”. He had a diamond mine in S. Africa, and I still have the piece of property he won in a poker game.
My paternal grandfather, from Galicia/Ukraine, changed his name to his new boss’ and went to Anyox, BC, where my father was born. It’s a ghost town now, the mine and buildings lost to rust and memories.
We are all from somewhere, and it saddens me that I often think of going back to Canada these days. Hard times, indeed.
So many things to so many people. For some it’s the warmth of love, an embrace, a helping hand, support in the bad times and all of the things that make a mother.
For some, it will always be pain: of abandonment, of abuse, and a gaping wound that seems like it simply cannot heal.
my wish for you
and the sure knowledge that there are those of us out here
in the dark between the lights
It cannot be rushed
leave you spent and floating
just when you think
comes raging back