—Ancestors—

‍

We have called your names.

We have spoken you back into the room —

into the air between us,

into the water we poured,

into the soil that received it.

‍

—Ancestors—

‍

You came. You always come.

That is the nature of those

who loved something

bigger than their own lifetime.

‍

We want you to know—

we see the bridge you built.

We feel the weight of every brick you built

Every plank you laid in the dark,

not knowing if anyone

would ever cross it.

‍

We are crossing it.

‍

We are crossing it today

with dirty hands and open hearts,

with seed packets and land trust deeds,

with grief we are still learning to carry

and a joy that refuses 

— refuses —

to be extinguished.

‍

You planted that joy in us.

Even in the worst of it.

Especially in the worst of it.

‍

—

‍

And now 

‍

—Ancestors—

‍

We release you.

‍

Not because your work is done.

Not because we no longer need you.

But because love knows

when to hold

and when to open its hands.

‍

—Ancestors—

‍

Go where the work calls you.

Go to the fields we have not yet found.

Go to the young farmer

who woke up this morning

not yet knowing they were a farmer.

‍

Go to the child

who will put her hands in the earth

for the first time this spring

and feel something ancient

move in her.

‍

Go ahead of us.

Clear the path.

because we are coming…

We are following in your deep footsteps.

‍

———————————————————

‍

To the Honorable George Washington Carver, Mutulu Shakur, Jamil Abdullah al-Amin—

go ahead of us.

‍

To Queen Nzingha, to Harriet Tubman,

to Queen Mother Moore, Assata Shakur, Mecca Bey —

go ahead of us.

‍

To the market women of New Orleans,

to the farmers of the Delta,

to the cooks who kept medicine in the kitchen —

go ahead of us.

‍

To the fifty million whose bones

Lie at the bottom of the Atlantic —

go ahead of us.

‍

To our grandmothers and grandfathers,

to the ones whose names we have lost,

to the ones the record books refused to write —

go ahead of us.

‍

We will find you in the soil.

We will find you in the harvest.

We will find you in the faces

of those we feed.

We will see you in the Whirlwind.

‍

Your work does not end with us.

‍

We are not your destination —

We are your continuation.

‍

What you began in chains

we carry forward in freedom.

What you whispered in secret

we will speak in the open field.

What you dreamed alone in the darkest of night

we will build together under star light.

‍

—Ancestors–

‍

You are not finished.

We will not let you be finished.

‍

Every seed we put in the ground

is a promise to you.

‍

Every harvest we bring home

is a report back.

‍

We are still here.

We are still going.

We have not forgotten.

‍

So go now, 

–Ancestors–

.

Go with our love wrapped around you

like a good cloak for a long journey.

‍

Go with our gratitude

poured out like water into earth —

which is to say,

completely.

Held by nothing.

Absorbed by everything.

‍

We will meet you again

in the growing season.

‍

We will meet you again

in the moment the first green shoot

breaks the surface

of a ground everyone said was dead.

‍

We will meet you there.

‍

And until we meet again.

‍

ASE ASE ASE Ó