I talk. Not pray. But.
I see and hear and feel

With a friend who knows the prayer of grieving a Black mother

She has known me for what forty
What forty
I suddenly hear Sade
if you only knew

You had a friend like me
A little less than forty

And now here we stand at the
Gated edges of Shondaland
Where our mothers have left us

Her Chief of Staff of The Free World Mom
My Fully Tenured Distinguished Dean Mom
Both having served as our chiefs of surgery

We waved goodbye rather unexpectedly
And now we need to know how to leave

Did she say to me
That she prays on it?

I talk. Not pray. But.
I medicate and binge watch and stay in bed

Did she say to g(G)od, the universe, the ancestors, all of them?
They are legion.

My gods have swam oceans and shape shifted shifted shapes
moved mountains set rocks and cried from them. If they answered my ears might ring before freedom.

My universe is fear. My galaxy is rage. I look away from it.
Looking away means Jack and Granddad stay at the store.

My ancestors are some ancient some babies and all wise. Some same age as me and simply burdened.
A world that never gave them the grace of ignorance.
Or mercy of recklessness. Or shelter of cubs under a mother’s fur. Inhuman.
Without the protection of a TV world we loved so.
Just Black and White Anatomy

So I talk. Not pray. It feels like they all deserve rest. All of them.

Period
And perhaps I do as well?
Might I save myself?
Find my own way?

Stop. Talking.
They always say in Shondaland.

Is that how one begins to pray?
On another Mother’s Day.