I recall the days when my grandma
would come visit me in Haiti.
We would sit beneath the hot sun
where the gentle breezes blew.
I would mold her silver hair
with wrists that would twist,
and fingers that'd weave cornrows like fine art.
Her head, a canvas painted with tales.
Each braid more precious than it seemed.
In every parted line I laid tracks to the past.
With every strand carefully woven and placed
my imagination explored her scalp.
Braiding wasn’t just patterns.
It held a language so strong it carried through generations.
Even today, as I shape my own strands,
I bear our traditions,
each twist, every coil is a statement I wear.
A tribute to our history, a story I declare.
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