Of Honey and Hurricanes

Who Am I I’m not street. Not hood. Not bougie. But baby… I’m good. Good-good You hear me? Good. Tried to do what’s right. Tried to be loved, accepted— but listen, I got this shy thing, this quietstorm thing, this worry-about-every-damn-thing thing. Good enough? Never felt like it. I tried to be Superwoman knowing I am not trying to stop planes trains and bad guys I have creative gifts but sometimes doubt Would tie my hands Because I swallowed the hurtful words of those I trusted until they settled in my bones, I would second-guess my every move, wondering: Why would someone want a someone like me? But hold up, sugar… HOLD. UP. Let me re-introduce myself. I am four foot eleven of pure, don’t-play-with-me I am sass, I am class, I am funny, honey, and I will have you laughing Til your sides ache I am honey AND hurricanes These days, I chase peace Like a man owes me money. I’m allergic to nonsense. I collect joy like other folks collect past due bills. Ya know, I’m no chef, but pull up a seat And you will feast on my delicious morsels of goodness. And guess what? I’m about to serve up Confidence — hot Joy — hotter Realness — boiling Don’t burn yourself now honey. And doubt? Doubt’s not welcome here. I kicked her out so hard she’s still spinning. So pull up that seat— no, wait— stand back and watch as I take every broken word I was ever fed and turn it into a crown. And when I’m done? Baby, you’ll know exactly why someone wants a someone like me. THIS is who I am. Pancakes on a Saturday Morning he was a spring day leaving the taste of lemonade upon the lips he was a sonnet, but sang to the beat of my heart which may just split into fragments at a moment’s notice he was a walk down mass street floating on air like the scented candles sold at the corner store he was performance art in front of the merc gathering dollar bills, spare change, salivating women, and some men he was puppy breath and baby giggles ticklish feet and a good time he was your favorite pair of shoes worn, but it’s italian leather damn it he was all brown frown lines and mocha laugh lines waiting for you to decipher his needs… or wants depending on the day he was a 64 mustang with a little rust on the bumper but still runs good he was lavender lemon ice cream from sylas and maddy’s delicious and always the flavor of my day he was isaac hayes and marvin gaye drawing me to his dance floor he was pancakes with butter and syrup on saturday morning he was sunshine in a storm an exclamation point that gave pause he was ALL that and to top it off… he was fine. Shrimp and Grits It was never just breakfast. Not when the skillet came out and the kitchen was noisy as he rattled pots and pans. Butter hitting cast iron had its own kind of music, low and sizzling. Garlic slid in right after, sharp and sweet, filling the whole house with a delicious aroma. The shrimp always curled quick, pink little commas that turned sentences of hunger into paragraphs of pure yum. They weren’t just food, they were the exclamation marks of the dish. And waiting to join them, a bowl of smooth, warm grits. He’d stand over the stove with that grin, the one that said he knew he he had just thrown down. “Taste this,” he’d demand, holding out a spoonful, steam rising from it. And I’d roll my eyes—because we both knew I’d eat it no matter what—but I leaned in anyway. One bite and I was gone: buttery with a little heat on the back of the tongue from that splash of hot sauce he always added. “Needs more pepper,” I’d say, as if I knew what I was talking about. “You just want an excuse to watch me bend over the stove again.” And he was right. Shrimp and grits wasn’t just breakfast. It was flirting disguised as food and I was eating it up, honey! And truth be told… I didn’t stay just for the shrimp.