In which i mistake ruby from blackish as a family member

i see it in your eyes, ruby. the kids these days know nothing of how it
used to be, nothing of wringing the last bit of life out of a warm body in
the name of a new meal, in the name of survival. they do not know its
either them or us. they do not know of how a man once went missing
from your bed for two nights too long, of how you later sat from a
distance and watched the flames engulf a mountain of his belongings.
you, with your legs crossed and a mug lined with diamonds kissing
your lips. you, laughing deep enough to wipe the pictures clean out of
their frames and throw two whole decades into the blaze. at least you
controlled this one. at least, this time, you could choose which parts of
you the heat would claim for itself.

and it must not have been easy to take the smoke that filled the block
and raise a black man from it; a black man who is unplagued with the
troubles of money, who's pockets are now lined with the fruits of the
labour you once reluctantly offered while under the weight of a summer
in compton. and oh, how the bones do grow old but still will be tested if
necessary. oh, how your hips will be forced back into a range it hasn't
seen since your younger years if the time comes for you to carry your
offspring on your back one last time. who else is left to drag a man
back into heaven but the woman who first birthed his whole and
dripping body and then wrapped it in the sun's gold?

these days, the sun don't gleam like it used to, ruby. sure, i can ask the
screen of metal and glowing light in my palms to remind me of how
things looked when i was a child, of how the sky once stretched itself
above the heads of those i loved and made promises about the morning
that it couldn't keep. i could find myself a photo with the face of a
young boy whose smile is just as wide as mine once was, his arms
wrapped twice around a woman he wants to keep alive at all costs. but
instead, i choose to sit here in the glimmer dripping in through the
window. i choose to sheath my eyes and let time spin its tall hands and
drag its tongue across my cheeks as I am dipped back into a moment I
can no longer touch with my fingers.

i do this because i know there is no honor in forgetting the land from
which i came or the arms that kept me tightly tucked to a still beating
chest. so tell me again, ruby, about the seventies, and the nothing that
came and flooded the hood, how yall made a feast out of it, how yall
stretched it till you could sit in a packed church on sunday morning
with familiar faces who had no more than you did, at least until the
spirit came in and filled your bellies with something to hold you over
for one more week: a promise of a blessing perhaps, or a bit of the good
word. tell me again about the rattle of the bullets, and how they came
for the boys that weren't baptized under something holy, and how you
took dre and all his friends and even your triflin ass lover to the chapel
on the corner to get their heads dipped in whatever water deacon was
willing to say a word over.

today, there are still those of us who have not been buried by the
hungry years that tried to swallow our names. today, the storm's
curtains will finally part their lips and i swear this house will be
unscathed. i know this because of the songs we've thrown into the air
before dinner all these years. i know this because grammy clenched her
fingers into a knot and prayed until her mouth was spilling with
tongues, and then spoke of salvation in all of our languages at once. and
ain't this enough of a spell to keep anything or anyone you love in one
piece? we can still make a feast out of the things, once living, that the
night dragged into dawn, at least until we stare into the eyes of
something more eager than us to stay alive. and don't that deserve a
hallelujah? ain't all of this worthy of bit of praise?

grammy told me to give praise for everything, including the silver hairs
of lightning that cracks across the dark of midnight; how each strand
was laid by God's gifted hands. but even God's bones get the shakes
once in awhile. how else do you explain the way death and its greedy
fingers somehow find its way to our necks?
​
ruby, i am trying to say that God could have blinked and I would have
been your son; would have been birthed from the cloud of smoke
hovering above los angeles instead of the salty earth of my island. so
tell me again, when you were in the place where all the aunties come
from, did you see any of mine? did you often speak their names? did
you all learn to sharpen your weapons and point them at those bold
enough to step up to the plate? did you all learn that the spilling of
blood is fair game if it means the night sky keeps our names out its
wide and unworthy mouth?