History

I settle into my grandmother’s rattan chair,
its cushions envelop me like time; 
I grab her book of history - 
it is flat like the horizon. 

I open its blank, worn, off-white cover 
in search of the elusive answer; illusive 
like January’s morning fog at the back, 
on the field. 

The pages hold pictures of women, 
ripe like mangoes, sweet-smelling,
intoxicating; men, tall and hard as 
sugar cane stems, not less sweeter,

I’d imagine. 
I flip like the weary child at mass 
through the missal; the immaculate
conception - the women’s smiles;
the Christ’s baptism - the men’s muscles;
I’ve seen it all before. 

Until - an invisible cold breeze wafts me - 
goosebumps like Martha at the sight of 
Lazarus’ second coming - an afro wide 
like a halo, bullets of sun rays diving
through: my grandmother, younger, staring. 

Mum! Come and see that!

Her chlorine-bleached hands, 
grabbing the book - 

AA, Look me! 

The pages turn crisply like coals on heat.

Look Janet, Irvin - long I see them;
Young days, my working-in-Castries-days. 

Only then, her shaky voice beating my drums;
only then, on my grandmother’s rattan chair; 
only then, it’s pages, like the horizon, running
from start to start: of history, you are both 
student and subject.