I turn to him, hold out my hand to say I’m sorry because I have thought about breaking his nose,
and he grabs me and hugs me like a long-lost brother.
It’s as awkward as things can get.
But I hear grace can feel
that way
at first.
2:19 pm
I slip
like an idiot
and cut my leg
on a rock.
Rutherford suggests someone should pee on my wound
so it doesn’t infect.
Tell ’em, Birdie, it’s medicine, right?
Not yours, Uncle Stevie says, laughing.
But Joy has something. I brought it just in case. It’s good medicine, she says.
Some good ole Ghana roots and herbs? Rutherford asks.
Actually, it’s Neosporin.
She rubs it on my leg, and we all laugh, even the guide.
We’re almost there I think, she says. Twenty more minutes and then we tackle the last thirty meters.
2:22 pm
She could
wipe air
and pretend magic
on my wound.
It wouldn’t matter,
because she is medicine.
2:43 pm
We reach the top
amidst
a million degrees
of humidity
and are given
the gift
of the most
magnificent view
any of us
have ever seen.
Golden rays streaming
over us,
as waterfalls
below
fill our eyes,
the canopies
within
our reach.
2:51 pm
I have had two
panic attacks
in my life.
One, when I was twelve and was left backstage in Detroit
while the band
cruised down Interstate 75.
Then, at sixteen, when I accidently drove down a parade route to escape paparazzi.
But, today I refuse to give in to the acrophobia or to any other fear.
So, I don’t look down.
But, everyone sees.
Come on, don’t let your old man show you up in front of your girl, Rutherford, who has smoked up a million acres of tobacco leaves, says, making his way across canopy one.
Uncle Stevie and Travis nudge each other like they’re teammates in some Hollywood feel-good sports flick.
There are only three canopies, you will be fine, Joy says, and I trust her, more than I’ve trusted anyone in this world, including myself.
Let me just take a moment, or an hour, to catch my breath, I answer, knowing full well that I’m at the crossroads, and on the other side of this path is my mother.
But it’s too late, she’s pushing me ahead of her,
onto this thing that feels
more like a bunch of quilted blankets, any one of which could unravel
at any second.
I close my eyes let her hold
me around
my waist
and walk
the path
that’s been chosen for me
never looking down or back.
3:02 pm
I make it.
We make it.
I stand
on the other side of three bridges.
On the other side of the mountain.
I take off
my soaked shirt see the vast horizon with eyes
that have never been so open.
I’m here.
At the top
of the moment I think
I’ve been dreaming about for a long, long time.
I think of Mom, I think of Lucy and close my eyes, almost unable to form the words.
I say it,
wishing
they could both hear me.
Thank you.
Rutherford’s Moment
Rutherford stands
on the edge
of the rainforest.
For a man who always had PARENTAL ADVISORY EXPLICIT CONTENT
plastered on all his records, this is what he shouts: Maybe there is a God. He probably doesn’t like me much, but he’s got my respect, that’s for damn sure!
Watching Joy
She’s as quiet as the clouds,
as wise as the mountain,
and as stellar as the sunrise,
and then she bows down
and speaks.
Everything is silent.
The fauna.
The birds.
The insects.
Everyone listens.
Joy’s Prayer
We are closer than we’ve ever been to the sun
to a star
a real star.
Light years away, and yet illuminating this very day–– our lives bearing the mortal umbra to be filled with merciful light.
They say
we’re made
of stardust; that would mean we’re made of eternal light.
I think
mountain rock and heaven’s breath too.
Amen.
Revelation
We are the sum
of moving parts
and adjustable hearts.
4:09 pm
I lead the pack
out of the rainforest North, less than five kilometers, Elvis says.
Rutherford grabs me from behind,
spins me around.
This is it. The last few miles of us. You'll be changed after this, kid.
Maybe this is the end and the beginning, I think.
The true beginning of all of us.
He puts his arm around me.
His guitar hits my head.
Why’d you bring that? I ask him.
You can never get lost with the music, Uncle Stevie, says, proving that he does actually make sense sometimes.
Let’s do this, I yell, and take off running toward
the beginning.
Turn off the camera
Rutherford says, putting
his hands
in front of the lens.
This is about Blade.
Not about me.
This is what he’s come for.
Let’s respect that, he says,
almost as if he’s
reminding himself.
5:25 pm
Eight and a half hours later we arrive
in a village with colorful homes made of mud
covered in straw like life-sized works of art I’ve seen in museums back home.
Children in matching red-and-orange uniforms prance along the street beside a skinny cow and an even skinnier goat.
When they see us, they stop. Joy waves.
A few return the greeting.
Then they run.
A lone man
rides past us on a rusty bicycle.
Akwaaba, he yells, smiling.
We keep walking toward
what looks like a storefront, where three women sit, holding babies and talking.
The sign out front says:
Konko Health Post.
Joy speaks to them in her native tongue, and they talk back.
One of them gets up, goes into the clinic, and Joy’s eyes reveal a truth
I’ve been waiting for, but not sure I’m ready for.
She’s here, Blade.
The Peak
Ever been
at the peak
of a grand mountain
where you can touch
the clouds
feel them moving
through you
bending sprightly
toward
the horizon
and you are overcome
unbound
and nearly
engulfed?
That is how I feel
When I see . . .
My mother
walks like an angel, literally; her wings are four girls—two on each side—in matching skirts and tops.
She is short—not much bigger than the tweens beside her—sporting jeans
and sunglasses that hide her from me.
She drops her glasses and their hands and runs
past small dwellings past shadows of inquisitive eyes painted by African sun toward
me.
She runs
down the red clay road as if parting the sea
to see me
to save me.
For a moment there is no one else but us.
Her eyes say she knows instantly.
My whole heart pounds.
I try to force my stiff legs to move.
To take those monumental steps and walk to her.
But my feet are fixed in concrete, while my body shakes like a tree in the gale.
Can this be? she asks to no one and everyone.
Lucy, Rutherford says, with a wide, honest grin, and measured voice. November.
She looks,
remembers him, shakes her head, smiles, starts laughing, and right before running to me, screams:
I DECLARE!
Belonging