i met him
the day
he was born.
small & red;
asleep & tired from the ordeal
of birth.
i was almost afraid
to hold him
but i knew
that i must greet him.
when he gained
a bit of strength
i would get him up
on his legs
and sing dance tunes
to him:
“Do You Love Me”
by the Contours
and such;
and I would simulate
rhythm and dance moves
while he stood
on
my lap.
soon
he knew my voice
and he would dance
when he heard it.
i found that he liked
percussion
so i gave him two spoons
and let him bang
on my pots.
his mother,
who is Belizean,
bought him
a keyboard;
i played the masters for him:
Baba Olatunji,
Mongo Santamaria,
Poncho Sanchez,
Max Roach,
Art Blakey,
Idris Muhammad.
he asks for me now:
and comes to visit me
and i make him treats.
and let him walk free here
exploring, watching movies,
playing on his pad,
climbing into his indoor tent.
and of course
we dance together–
him, self supporting
on two strong toddler legs.
and me
me still busting
a few diminished moves
while
i watch.
he may never become
a percussionist,
but maybe he
will remember
me
and
the stories
of
his foremothers
and forefathers
as told
through
the
dance
and
the
drums.
Linda Tauhid
©9/24/21
Linda Tauhid 