Do You Drink Beer?

I sat across the table from one of the most inspirational women I had ever known. She had a kind and beautiful face set in caramel skin with shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked at me with the depth of the cosmos in her eyes and wore a simple rust colored blouse and a loose, knee length skirt with chocolate brown and white patterns throughout. Her style was simple yet revealed her thick hips and feminine shape to anyone who glanced her way. I last saw her about 30 years ago and she wore the exact same outfit, at least I think she did. Our relationship then was different, it was extremely personal at that time. Now, time and space has transformed her into a literary legend in the Virgin Islands. She was one of the late, great poets of the 80's, Sheila Hyndman.

Awkwardly, I asked, "Do you drink beer?"

She threw back her head and laughed then, "yes Dierdra, I drink beer."

I didn't drink beer, but I ordered two; one for her and one for myself. I would've done anything at that point to connect with her more deeply and sipped on the awful tasting thing, the awe of being in her presence transforming it into ambrosia.

"There's a lot I want to ask you and don't know how or where to start" I said, nervously looking at my fingers and avoiding eye contact to contain the swell of emotion inside me.

"Keep it light," she replied. "Don't go too deep, not now."

"Okay" I said, "You've always seemed so very connected to the earth and to our ancestors somehow. I've always felt like you were rooted in Africa though you had never been there. How did you do that without setting foot on the continent or knowing which country you are from?"

"That's you not going too deep?" she laughed. "I grew up in a different world than you did. I didn't have a whole lot of TV to distract me from nature. When you pay attention to nature, you grow roots there. And in nature abides my ancestors. Do you understand?" she asked, looking up and into my soul with her earth coloured eyes.

"Yes, I think so," I responded.

"Do you really?" she says, peering deeper into my eyes. After a short moment, she gently says "You do, you just keep second guessing yourself. Be with nature and you will root yourself to the earth of your ancestors, and to me."

We sat in silence for a while, completely oblivious to the sounds of conversation all around us at the bar.

As if I were about to burst open, I quickly say, "I feel like I am obligated to write in memory of you. Like it is something I can do to keep you alive, why do I feel this way? Is writing in my blood? In anybody's blood? There was more than one writer in the family so I was just wondering how you felt about it. Would you be mad if I chose not to write? Are you mad at me for not writing all these years?"

"I'm not mad at you," she said gently touching my arm, "you're not obligated to do anything in this life Dierdra. But the writing calls to you, like it called to me. It is ours and we belong to it. We are storytellers and our tool is voice. It's not in your blood, it's in your soul. I only wish that you would be courageous enough to embrace all of who you are without fear or worry about anything else. You will find great peace once you do."

At that moment I understood that she knew my struggle between being myself and doing what was necessary to be successful for my family. I knew then, that she thought I was important enough to pay attention to. I had wondered until that point how we would communicate since I was only 8 years old when we last spoke. I barely recognize my 8 year old self now that I am past 35 and thought she would would not recognize me. But at that moment, I realized she knew me and she was not only Sheila Hyndman author and beloved poet, she was also my mother.

"I miss you mommy" I whispered.

"I know," she replied with a loving smile.

There were no words to express the emotion that filled the silence thereafter, and we both knew that to speak would diminish its meaning. Instead, we looked toward the sea immersed in the present, hoping to cling to its tendrils for as long as the moment would allow.

#mommy's girl

#Virgin Islands poet

#I Miss You Mommy