Was it Anansi the Spider? Lucy says.
That was it, Lucy. We even made up songs about that dayum spider.
In Ghana folklore, Anansi carries knowledge and stories to help us triumph over challenges.
Come to think of it, Blade, that’s when we knew you were gonna be a rocker.
You’ve been dreaming up your childhood, my dear, Lucy says. Remembering the gift you have. Your father tells me you are a natural storyteller, that you weave powerful songs.
You said that, Dad?
Yeah, he said it, Uncle Stevie hollers. Back from the dead, eh?
Birdie, get this rebirth on camera. Get us hugging, Dad says, and she does just that, and it’s not all that bad to be
in the spotlight
anymore.
We’ve missed you, Mr. Blade, Joy says, kissing me on the cheek.
At the top
of a mountain
across a rainforest in the middle
of the bush
it seems
I have figured out the dream
and discovered
that what I’ve been searching for
has been inside
of me
this whole time.
We walk outside
where the sun blinds
and cures
at the same time.
I wave at the children
and still feel like
I’m floating
through a web
of dreams,
pulling strands
of spider silk
away from the past,
so I can step into
the here
the now.
Conspiracy
A Ghanaian bon voyage feast has been prepared
to nurture our spirits before the long
journey back.
After the meal
Joy says, with devious smile, Perhaps you should play something for us, Blade.
I don’t have my guitar, I hit back, swiftly.
Use mine, Dad says, high fiving Joy and handing me his Custom-Polished-Finish Godin, which no one has ever played but him.
Yes, won’t you play a song for me, Blade? Lucy says, knowing she’s won the second she asked.
Whatchu know about that 5th Avenue Archtop, kid? That’s a vintage guitar right there, Uncle Stevie shouts at me.
Watch and learn, old man, I shoot back, readying myself
to play
the biggest concert
of my life.
Track 13: Landslide
ROCKERS: FLEETWOOD MAC / ALBUM: FLEETWOOD MAC / LABEL: REPRISE RECORDING DATE: JANUARY 1975 STUDIO: SOUND CITY STUDIOS, VAN NUYS, CALIFORNIA.
Stevie Nicks was tired.
In her twenties with a mountain of woes
and a notebook filled with music to help
her climb
out of it.
Hmmm, sounds familiar.
Unsure
if she should continue as a musician or go back to school, she gave herself six months,
six more months to find her song.
She went to Aspen, and with great mountains surrounding her, she wrote a song that became a classic.
And so did she.
And so did her band.
I think I have found my Aspen,
my great mountain, yet a part of me is still afraid to climb
to face myself.
I’m still afraid.
to read
The Letter
like the words themselves
will cause
a landslide
of emotion
that will bury me alive.
What if it’s too much?
What if I let them—her—down?
What if I can’t survive the landslide of love
that I’ve found all around me?
Lucy walks us to the path
we hug goodbye
for a long, long time.
I declare, it’s a weird life, Blade, when your deepest prayers and hopes are fulfilled, she says.
She is everything
I never expected her to be.
And hoped she could be.
And prayed she would be.
Thank you, Lucy November, I say, not wanting to let go.
I love you, is what I want to add, so I do.
Home
The walk through the forest
and down from the mountain’s summit is uneventful and filled
with silence and happiness.
The bus
takes us back to the place we all call home.
We are met
by children and adults who cannot hide their emotions.
We think
they will celebrate our return with feast and dance all evening.
But it’s not a celebration that’s on their minds . . .
Chaos
There is so much commotion.
So many people shouting at Joy
we don’t know where to run who to see
what to do.
It’s Sia, she says to us. She is sick. We must go.
Where, where is she?
We dash
to the local hospital, a thirty-minute drive, and suddenly the rainforest the pineapple the familial reunion seem far, far away and a much easier trek than this.
Diagnosis
Rutherford says he’ll pay the world to save her.
But money can’t buy everything.
Why did you tell me she was okay? he yells at Joy.
We did not know how serious it was, she answers, between sobs.
IT’S MALARIA, HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW? he continues.
Dad, you don’t need to scream at her. She’s scared too.
We all are.
What are they doing for her? he asks, somewhat cooler.
We are treating the malaria with medication, the nurse says.
This lethal word is like an arrow aimed at chest, cutting through skin and bone, piercing heart
and soul.
The mosquito
is an invisible murderer,
piercing possibility
sucking futures
with its six-sworded
proboscis.
It knows just
where to bite,
which vessels
to attack,
and it shows
no mercy.
It won’t even spare
the children.
What Matters
Rutherford sits on the edge
of Sia’s bed,
holding her hand.
He’s humming twinkle, twinkle, trying to soothe her aches and pains.
I know I could get her the best care back at home. I’m going to adopt her, Blade. Bring her home with me.
I don’t think it’s that easy, Dad.
I don’t care how much it costs.
I watch him
try to get her to eat a little, to drink a little, to laugh a little, to live
a little
longer.
Unlikely, but True
Rutherford holds Sia,
tells her stories
like a father to a child.
She looks up at his face.
You can tell
a smile wants
to find its way
out.
Strange,
even in the most unlikely
of faces you can find
love.
Sia is sitting up
taking broth, baby-sized spoonfuls.
She tugs
on Rutherford’s hair; he leans
into her
and whispers something
I can’t hear.
She grabs my hand, her little fingers pull mine
like they’re triggers shooting love, and with scratchy throat says, Uncle, Game!
So we play I Spy.
I spy something brown and round, I begin.
She points to my eyes.
Then Rutherford’s.
Then hers,
as if we’ve all come from
the same line of tired,
worried browns.
She smiles at us and musters
a beautiful wink.
Our Sia is coming back.
And that warms my doubtful gut.
In a voice
that carries
love, care,
protection
and all the things a father should bring to the world,
Rutherford says You guys don’t need to stay. I’ll be here with her. I’ll keep her smiling. Go on, take the bus, back to the village. Get some rest.
What about you?
Ah, you know rock stars don’t sleep anyway. Plus, I got Birdie and Stevie here to talk trash with while we wait this out. Don’t you two worry. She’s gonna be fine. I promise you that.
Take Travis too, Uncle Stevie hollers. Poor chap hasn’t been the same since the climb.
He hugs me,
and, for once,
it feels right
and good