She still remembered the feeling of hope. Hope of a new beginning that a poignant international flight brings. The hope in the tomorrow that resides in another land. The feel of new sand underneath her counterfeit Converse. Or grass. Yes grass. For Nothing beats the sand of the Motherland, reminding its melanin covered inhabitants of whom they belong to.
The name that caused her brows to fleetingly crease curiously from lack of knowledge. A look that was not lost on the root that supported her. Black Santa she called him for his rotund belly was as robust as his boisterous spirit. Her Father. He always bounded into the living room, bringing his belly with him. She rolled her eyes at him. This time his portly pride was adorned with a shirt that had the late Tupac looking up at him, grey khakis and lopsided reading glasses that announced his asymmetry so loudly. His joyful stride always lightened her mood. He always managed to see the light in the darkness. The possibility in the unknown. The adventure that awaited beyond the ocean. His infectiousness, drew her from the melancholy of what she would be leaving behind and dragged her into the world that he envisioned. With eyes wide like a crazed high fiend and electric words, the world he created and built for her accompanied her, followed her on that flight to that place. That place covered with the white blanket of water crystallized by the hands of God. Canada. It provided comfort for nights when the call of the motherland was incessant. She closed her eyes and drifted and rested and built on the foundations that Black Santa had laid down and created her own….apprehensively