My little hands pushed away the tight coiled hairs from her teary-eyed face. I see an older reflection of me broken by familiar hands like rocks to a glass house. Made in her image, she gently grabbed my hands from her face.
“Don’t be ever be ripe enough for a man to eat you”
“What do you mean, mommy?”
Her caress pulled me in close to her chest, playing with my hair that she made in her image. Seeing the living impression of her she continued,
“Baby, you have are made by mother nature. Skin dyed by the sun, kissed by its rays. In you contain mothers nature. You are the fruit of it,” she smiled and grabbed my tiny nose.
I giggled, “Can I be an apple mommy, I like apples?
“You can be any fruit you want to be honey. You contain the seeds of life. You are the soil that forth the flowers. You have tears that cleanses me, you are joy, you are the smile on my face. You are power. You are black. Let no one, no man, nobody take it away from you. You have a power to move worlds and they know that. You are a woman.
I shot her a look of confusion, unaware of anything, “I just want to be an apple because they are sweet!”