THREE Today I let myself remember. I let my thoughts wander overboard beyond cliffs where I have trained it not to wander. Today I think of my mother. African she is. She still maintains the heritage and packs up her kinky hair or she braids it. Some days, she combs it and the fullness makes her face appear smaller, younger, Wilder. She also had beautiful dark skin and the body of one even younger than me. Kent once described me as chocolate smeared with caramel pudding. If he meant that I am the complexion of none but both, then I accept that description. My hair was formally straightened for a fluid flow with the comb but now it seems to have returned to its natural state. Just as I was once chubby but this past month or months has reshaped me. Yet my face is not wild like my mother's. Many times it has been called innocent with a touch of mischief and that's all. I do not know
Magbasa pa