So much of growing up is an unbearable waiting. A constant longing for another time. Another season.

I still hear you humming, Mama. The colour of your song calls me home. The colour of your words saying, Let her be. She got a right to be different. She gonna stumble on herself one of these days. Just let the child be. And I be, Mama.

I shall become, I shall become a collector of me. And put meat on my soul.

And I cried… for all of the women who stretched their bodies for civilizations, only to find ruins.