Small Worlds

by Caleb Azumah Nelson

Many of us gathered have long lost our faith but we do believe in rhythm.

We’re young and often struggle to express just what it is we need, but I know we all value closeness.

At the door, you’ll find Uncle D, who is no blood relation to anyone and yet related to everyone.

When I ask more of Mum, of the time she came here, the problem isn’t that she doesn’t remember. It’s that she cannot forget.

And because it’s summer, I stay present. I am here. I don’t worry about what has been or is to come, because right now, everything feels possible.

To go back home is to wrangle with who you are against who everyone thinks you should be.

I want to know my father because, facing this man, I don’t know who he is, or who he was.

I tell Mum, we’re watching what happens when a community feel they have nothing to lose: how they turn to protest to make their voices heard.

You’re worried that your anger and sadness have been echoing through your life, multiplying, misdirecting, finding homes in those closest to you.

Maybe this is all we need sometimes, for someone else to believe in the possibilities you see for yourself.