A matriarch is dead. A compass broken. Gathered in grief, we covered
her body with branches and sand; now we unpack, the estate she left us;
by the glow of gaslight, we start to see. Hidden in plain sight, the things
we did not want to own; now so clear they ring. Numbered are the days
where we continue to conceal our characters with whitewash powder.
Maybe we were born with it, maybe it’s privilege. There is no value in denial,
or unearned assets. There is no clear way through this intersection,
until tradition is reinvented, and a new matriarch found. Today we learn,
today we listen. We are in this together alone. And one day, we will return
to hold her bones and talk about the elephant that was in the room.