A Dream Inherited

I dreamt once,

that I was running through the expanding terrain of Port Au Prince Haiti.

My feet stomped against the unleveled ground,

my knees, covered in dust, rose and fell in sync with my breath.

I dreamt of my home,

a now incomplete picture made up of colorful building blocks,

marked chalkboards,

and colorful dresses. 

A small pack of plastic hair beads lay on the table,

waiting to be intentionally placed into the ends of my chunky braids

in an orderly fashion 

My brothers cartoons clashed

with the charming melodies of kompa

that rang through the concrete blocks that enclosed us, 

and we danced till our bodies refused our minds.

I dreamt of the aromas that entered through my nostrils,

signaling my brain of the feast flooding my vision

on every sunday evening.

In these dreams, 

I completed a story that was snuffed out of my grasp.

Each piece from fragmented memories,

and lazily told stories during family events.

Now, I no longer dream,

but I still dance the second I recognize

the distinctive bass of my people’s voice.

I still place my hair in chunky braids,

though they lack the cascading beads. 

Those aromas still signal that same feeling of warmth.

I found myself outside of my dreams,

and the reality that memories

did not bridge me to my own unbreakable identity,

took its place instead.