This vase of flowers sits on our table reminding me of the didactic still life that every student of color must regurgitate.
It’s a funny term, “still-life” as though life could ever be held still. These days, I take a different sense from that bouquet with sun-yellow faces smelling of apology.
Life is not stopped - it is still: persistent and unkillable. Life is try after bloody try, as we try to find the way. Life is still loving, still forgiving, still being willing to start again.
Perhaps that’s the value of still life: if you persevere, the flowers of meaning will unfold to greet you.
As sky blazes blue overhead and fresh-poured coffee cools I stand and sway, suddenly aware of every ache and pain staring at the open eyes of my son. My son who, by no fault of his own cannot grasp the will to sleep.
The stage has been set - the shades, darkened cozy pajamas provided, white-noise softly droning, a safe and soft bed. Everything is in place but me, my heart far from rest and mind far from present, singing impatient lullabies.
I think every child is a sort of detective by nature.
My son has me under the lights and sees the no in my eyes as my lips say yes. My son, whose innate expertise can sense the blips on my polygraph.
When I want to take offense at this subtle inquisition, his hand grasps mine and tells me the truth.
Above all else, he asks those most basic of human needs: love, honesty, consistency.
