It Was The First Time

Grandmotherhood Initiated Me Into A World Of Play, Where All Things Became Fresh, Alive, And Honest Again Through My Grandchildren's Eyes. Mostly, It Retaught Me Love.

I Vividly Remember The Summer Of 1964 With Its Voter Registration Drives, Boiling Racial Tensions, And The Erupting Awareness Of The Cruelty Of Racism. I Was Never The Same After That Summer.

We Become What We Pay Attention To.

At Night I Would Lie In Bed And Watch The Show, How Bees Squeezed Through The Cracks Of My Bedroom Wall And Flew Circles Around The Room, Making That Propeller Sound, A High-pitched Zzzzzz That Hummed Along My Skin. I Watched Their Wings Shining Like Bits Of Chrome In The Dark And Felt The Longing Build In My Chest. The Way Those Bees Flew, Not Even Looking For A Flower, Just Flying For The Feel Of The Wind, Split My Heart Down Its Seam.

She Didn't Even Know How Dangerous The Truth Could Be, All The Tiny, Shattering Seeds It Carried.