you remind me of her

Dear Daughter, 

You remind me of Mary. Young and expectant. Filled with wonder, possessing a tongue coated with questions. You remind me of her, so pregnant with possibility, so ready to birth your own Godly, prodigious miracle for the sake of humanity. When your head tilts to ponder this world and your position in it and what it all might mean, you remind me of Mary—young and so fertile that the very air makes love to you. You remind me of her with all your “yes, and…” improvisations, and your easy acceptance of whatever comes riding on the wind. You look just like her when the sun slips across your face, a luminous Madonna in waiting. 

You remind me of Hagar, your obedience mistaken for fraud, your desires mistrusted whenever you are just simply doing exactly what you’re told. You remind me of her. Sometimes, you can’t see how right you are and how very wrong they are. You can’t please them. No matter what you do, no matter what you sacrifice, no matter how much you stretch your body to make room for their deepest desires, you can’t please them. And if you can’t please them, you can’t trust them. You remind me of her, parched in the desert with no place to go—but suddenly you see a well. You remind me of her desperate kind of resilience. You snap back, though for a brief moment you believed them when they said, “You’re service is no longer needed.” You found your purpose. It was always there. 

You remind me of a young Harriet plotting in the fields, taking note of visions. You look just like her when you gaze into the sky and declare the moon a friend, the night an accomplice to dreams fulfilled. You remind me of her, you’re so impatient. You can’t be still, keep calm and carry on waiting. “For what?” you say and take flight that very night knowing that help is not coming. You remind me of her when you pull an all-nighter, convinced that the next hour will render you free. You remind me of her and it’s terrifying ’cause you see no fences, no risk other than death. And baby, I’d rather you stay put and live. 

You remind me of Octavia when you stood up in your second grade assembly and said, “I want to be a scientist.” But I knew what was really true was that you knew science was any thing that could be imagined. You remind me of her when you believed my little philanthropic lies that Santa’s elves were cuckoo for ketchup; that I had the phone number to the mother of all closet and under-the-bed monsters; that fairies protect children on Halloween; that the Tooth Fairy is very forgetful; that ghosts are just nice people who got lost while dying; that bunnies eat baby carrots for dessert; that librarians turn into gargoyles at night to protect the books; that the moon is in love with the sun, but that the sun is so very, very vain; that stars are born whenever someone earnestly prays or wishes. You remind me of Octavia when you ask, “Can I tell you a story?” And whether or not I want one, you do, and I’m always so grateful. 

You remind me of Shirley. You can wear a door down. You have no qualms knocking and knocking. You don’t fear asking strangers questions. You care too much about people. You think everyone should be counted. You remind me of her because you don’t mind being the first black girl to do something. You forget your place in this world. Your cage is invisible. Its bars penetrable. Its door always open. The way you campaign for any worthy cause is just like her. Even your losing is winning. Like her, you baffle even your enemies. 

You remind me of vulnerability—you make my skin tight-thin with feeling.

You remind me of enough-ness every time you breathe in and every time you breathe out. 

You remind me of the truth every time I say your name. 

You remind me of glory—my existence made your existence and your existence made mine. 

You remind me of my better, imagined self.

Your face reminds me of a pansy—wide open. After you wash and you condition your hair, I smell fresh cut grass. You sleep like the dead, no worries. You wake like the unearthed. You eat like a carnivorous bird, always saving some for later. You watch people the same way my mother did, looking out for the shiftless and shifty. You’re so suspicious, you remind me of my mother’s most outlandish conspiracy theories. 

Every time I look at you I can’t help but to think of Sandra and Pamela and Atatiana and Korryn and Shantel—going about your own business. Lotioned-up-brown skin like meat tenderizer. You’re so tender-headed. You’re so tender at the bone. You remind me of Mary Magalene and that young girl from Samaria. Misinterpreted. Totally misunderstood. 

I worry about you like biblical mothers worried about Tamar, Dinah and Bathsheba. I worry like sharecoppers worried ’bout Recy. You’re so pretty when you’re angry. Too pretty for your own good, and like Zora, you think you know everything. You remind me of her, too. You’re too smart for your own good. I worry about you. 

And you remind me of her—Breaonna burgeoning on her mother’s hope, a bunch of prayers, and a little bit of luck. You remind me of her because you too are the root to your tree of friends, wise, holding it all together. You look just like her, holding unimaginable value—your body an unexplored cavity of stalactites and stalagmites, unearthed minerals, wells of wishes. You remind me of her, so authentically authentic, so wide-eyed, so in love, so easy to love that you worry me with your willingness to love. It’s so dangerous to love. You remind me of her wanting to play one last hand of Uno over watching another movie. And like her, you’re always the first to say goodnight and I love you til’ death us do part.