The Summer of Saint Jude
Tears running down my face, I’m thankful that winter sacrifices herself so that spring and summer can laugh together. I look at all the black boys in this city; pray their skin turns just as honey brown as mine does under god’s sun. I pray to all the saints, those who have left this world young and unafraid, begging them to hear my prayer. One that promises to love and laugh with no limits. A love of freedom and a freedom in love. No wavering, no misery, just hands locked together in an air-conditioned room in the middle of June. Lips laughing as we lick melting ice cream off each other’s arms while the mariachi band down the street embraces the night.
I love summer nights. Nights where my roof becomes a stage and my neighbors and I can dance all our sins away. Watch them drip down the building, pour into the streets and seek communion under all the stars Adam and Eve once looked up to for guidance.
I love how a neighborhood becomes a nation in its own right, the way families open all the windows of their homes, airing out every hardship for the sake of fresh air and a bit of Eden to call their own.
I love how the cicadas and the children come out to play, protesting their own youth until the moon demands them to go back to sleep. This corner of the world, my world, is so beautiful in all its unabashed nature.
I feel so much and I feel it so strongly. I feel and I feel and I thank god, the universe, or whomever I owe this skin and this love to. And the way my mother laughs when I call her phone, knowing we both should already be asleep. And the way my father’s voice rolls over itself when he checks in on me, hoping that I am okay in the summer heat. And for my sisters and all the hope they bring to me in this world because they truly believe that love heals all wounds we have created for ourselves. And for me, because I believe them.
Amen to kinship.
Amen to blackness.
Amen to blood.
Amen to summer.