Ancestral Window

prose by msoul

Taken from Pinterest

There’s a crescent in the evening amber sky, though the rain slices through the sun’s light. I sit alone with my tabby, tracing the single frame of my window. The setting sun keeps me facing forward, and it’s almost as curious as I am, peeking through the window. A pitch-black echo spreads across and over my back. For some reason, it reminds me of when I was a child, when my grandmother huddled us toward a single window. We waited for the lights to come back on while also watching the sky go from gray to black; black to gray. The rain would clink, clatter, and patter against the thin and white steel windows. My grandmother was a woman of god, yet I still feared the darkness that lurked in her house— I was afraid of its silence more than anything, even when a face appeared with a sinister smirk. Yet I still focused on god’s permission to feel safe. He would stretch his arms across the sky, scaring away the shadows in our ancestral home. Though I always knew one spirit would remain, even after god’s wrath— my great-grandmother, for better or worse. After every clash of thunder and strike of lightning, the wind would carry the steam of a once-hot and rocky earth—I thought paved roads were only for god’s favorite. Somehow, I still remember what a release our mother felt as her land no longer gave the children boils on their feet. Somehow, I remember this in the transitioning seasons and nowhere near the burning sun. How is it possible, in the entirety of this moment, that I feel whole? Maybe it was because the earth cried the remainder of my tears for today. Maybe the moment reminded me of how oddly human I felt. Or maybe my grandmother’s comfort still remains with me twenty years later. I am faced with many uncertainties, but I am alright for the first time. I am freed from the luxury of needing to get my precious moments right the first time.