:Put it in a bubble, and then blow it away:

Dear Gramma,

The other day, I was snapping the ends off of green beans, listening to Public Enemy, while I had the brown rice cooking.

For that moment, how I thought it would have been cool to have a daughter, 9 years old, snapping the ends of the green beans just like how my mother did, just as how you taught her.

She would furrow her brow, indulged in immense concentration as she tries to perfectly snap the ends leaving as much green bean as possible, something our grown up wiser hands have been accustomed to and easily pushed it aside and never gave thought to it.

She would watch me as a smash the garlic with the side of my blade, and wonder in awe on how I don’t tear up when I slice a brown onion.

She would also probably wonder why Public Enemy is playing and her young mind still innocent and learning, would not understand the impact of the message that Chuck D is trying to say to the masses.

Much like how I would look up at Mama as she hummed Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song”, never knowing the words until college and the message Bob was trying to say to the masses.

I don’t know. I just thought it would have been cool.

alfie

dear you,

talk shit now, because i am going to make you eat your words later.

alfie

dear you,

you give good hugs.

what i mean is that when you and i hug, we fit. my height seems to fit your height. my cheek rest comfortably in the nook between your chest and your shoulder. my arms fit around your waist, as your arms drape over my hips where your hands cup the slope of the lower curve of my back.

sometimes, you would take a deep breath, say that my hair smells good and touch your cheek to my temple.

we are a two puzzle pieces, you and i. at least when we hug.

i never told you this but i can hear our heartbeats synchronize, whether yours slows the pace or mine quickens.

or, if we are deep in conversation and i can’t hear the beats, i notice our breaths will start to match, the rise and descent of our chest.

and the laughter.

i never had anybody’s hug fit me as well as  your have.

but maybe i am putting way too much emphasis on this thought.

i miss you

dear sista struggling,

the mind is a very powerful force. with it, what seems to be impossible soon is connected to a multitude of options. problems solved by balancing out equations. mind over matter makes you levitate over a mountain of problems.

but what happens if that mind is filled to the brim with disillusions? or versions of truths unvalidated due to the lack of facts. what happens when a powerful mind is saturated with swirling tornados of emotion.

or worst yet, pain.

i once believed in your power. i have heard your stories of triumph and heartbreak. i have listened to how you took the crumbled pieces of yourself and rebuild it to have you stand taller and more solid.

and because you shared that with me, i held your truth gingerly, softly, but tightly. and not once did i think to ever throw it back to you.

but some pains exist long before i have ever come into your life. that there are issues bigger, and cut deeper, causing your stance, your very being to build a wall so thick, that nobody can break it down. and sometimes, that pain, etched deep into your walls, become engravings of any person who you think would hurt you.

what has leeched onto you have found you standing in a garden of tombstones. of people you once trusted but for some askewed point of view, became an enemy and to stop the pain from being amplified, you pulled the plug.

sista… nobody wanted to hurt you. nobody had the intent of wanting you to put up your guard. nobody pushed you in a corner causing you to bounce back. nobody was there to fight and the only enemy you saw was your own shadow, which you boxed.

i never wanted your man. never then, never now, and never in the future. i don’t want your life, when i am so in love with mine . your journey doesn’t intrigue me which is why you don’t see me traveling parallel to you.

this is not a story of me, or the outside forces trying to break you down, or take what is yours. what is yours is this pain. it is not mine. it is fears you thought you eradicated in your battles past but instead they were hiding in the hidden corners of you, coming out and striking you, walls of smoke that fog mirrors. it is not me you see. it is not them you see…. it is you.

i never think of you yet my name always show up on your tongue. i don’t hide in the smoke waiting to strike. i don’t even have the time or energy to even entertain the thought. i focus on those i love, my allies, my confidantes.

i used to consider you a sista in the struggle. now i consider you a sista struggling. the most heartbreaking part of the story is that you exiled the very village who would have been there for you.

good luck on your journey. one day you will let go of the weight and become streamlined with the wind. i did, and it is only me and my flock, soaring. and “i’ve never seen a wild thing sorry for itself.”

alfie

dear time,

seems like you like to play the elusive one. hard to get. unavailable.

well, that seems to be Love’s and Money’s game too.

and i’m getting tired of your flirtatious coyness leading to nowhere.

alfie

dear you,

you are the last person i would ever write to. but being that you will never read this letter, i will rest assure that releasing these words to the ether will be just as healthy as i releasing you from my heart.

i barely think of you. i’ve been over you  for years. the mention of your name do not flood me with memories any more. i can barely remember tracing a finger along your face let alone anything else.

maybe if i try, i could. and maybe if i do now, i will smile. i will give the honor of “us” and push all the ugly, sloppy things towards the end of the relationship to the side. i used to hold on to that pain as a reminder of what never to feel with another man ever again.

and i have succeeded.

i have never felt the betrayal, the heartache, the anger as i have with you. and dare i say i have never felt the carefree, whimsical love that i have felt with you either. i’ve loved hard, but it feels different as if it was blanketed with wisdom and peace.

they say that people return in a form of resolution. that when two people meet again, they either connect with a stronger bond, or realize why they didn’t work out, in which pages of lessons are laid out to you, in which you take to the rest of your journey.

i knew it was the latter when you called months after i caught you with her.

you said you missed me and you loved me. i responded in my head to yours, “i don’t know what that means.”

but know this. because i didn’t know what “love” was, i searched for it. i searched for myself. to find me, and redefine me.

it was the pain that shook me out of my complacency and into the world that i am in. the world that i am SUPPOSED to be in. and though you didn’t inspire me to write beautiful love poems or paintings depicting people who are smitten,  your exit is what forced me to make sense of the mess inside of me, to sort it out, and to spoon feed it to people who were willing to listen.

without you, i wouldn’t have known me. and who would have thought that knowing me was directly connected to hating you.

the hate is no longer there. in fact, in ways, i miss you and wish you well. i am sure you have found the love that the younger versions of ourselves couldn’t provided for each other.

but if i can say this, thank you. thank you for being the spark to the cannon that propelled me to my life despite of its ugly form. it’s because of my discovery that i am artist who can live off her expression allows me to say that deep within me, in its purest form, untouched and not judged by any body including myself, is a part that has love for you.

take care of yourself. no need for light-footed cameos any more.

love,

alfie

dear cupid,

so what good is your aim if you keep pulling out the arrows from your targets?

alfie

dear orange tree,

you and i nearly the same age. i remember grampa and dad planting you. i can’t say i remember when. it was definitely before i started kindergarden. i remember because we had to uproot the strawberries that i so loved just so you can be part of our family.

i don’t go back there to see you. in passing, i’ll take a glimpse of you, continue my way, but never stay long enough to see that you have grown taller than the house. or that fallen fruit from your limbs has fed another squirrel.

my dog simon used to grab an orange from your low-hanging branches and play catch with himself. he loved citrus from there on out. god, i miss him right now.

the smell of the orange blossoms in spring are the most comforting. you often try to call my name by speaking to my nose with the scent of your flowers wafting in an open window, into the kitchen.

thank you for that.

well, i do notice you now, as i am grateful for my basket of ripe oranges, freshly juiced, and stored. i never take care of you. i don’t water your soil or sprayed pesticides on you (which is probably a good thing) nor harvest you. but yet you continue, after all these years, bear fruit, always offering it to me, even though i don’t come around.

but you always offer…

i should take a lesson from you.

love,

alfie

dear dearheart,

yes.

i can tell by the momentary tightness around my chest, feeling as if the world sits squarely on top of my breastplate, bending my ribs ever so slightly, that you are strained.

i can feel you want to stretch, to reach out, and beat as wildly as you would love to do.

but you can’t. and as i feel now the blanket of melancholy, i can hear Portishead on loop yet once again. as beautiful as that album is, do you really want that to be our soundtrack?

i want to feel life. i want you to beat harder, push the letters by our ancestors through channels sacred where only we can decipher the encrypted secrets. i don’t want to feel numb. so instead of feeling the pain around you, dearheart, i push legs harder, tear muscle, gasp for breath because i have this yearning to run through grassy meadows, feeling the breeze against my cheeks, until dizziness bless me with the feeling of life.

hold fast. don’t seek. let all things heavenly and blessed come to you. beat wildly regardless. love hard though it is never returned. pour out because you will always overflow. don’t keep it to yourself. and remember remember remember, that all things lost manifests itself in some other form.

transform.

transform matter into energy, and use it to evolve love.

beat wildly and free, but never, never, bleed.

love,

alfie

dear pillow,

it is you i trust to hold the whispers i slip in slumber

words falling short to be captured in intended ears

for safe keeping

hold them, until i am ready to repeat them when i am conscious.

alfie