sitting across from him she is fascinated at the very idea that once she dreamed of being a revolutionary. and not the grassroots organizing flyer dropping kind of a revolutionary but an actual gun toting che guevara I fight for the things I believe in, with all the weapons at my disposal and try to leave the other man dead so that I don’t get nailed to a cross or any other place kind. to this end she once signed up for a weapons class and learned how to can string beans and make jelly from watermelon rinds. revolutionaries after all are self sufficient.
sitting in this cafe sipping green tea from a lily covered cup she is a long way from the vision she once coveted. her dorm room walls were covered with postcard portraits of angela davis, winnie mandela, che, malcom x, marcus garvey, susan b. anthony, ida b. wells and rhoda. she covered herself in sandalwood and burned jasmine incense while incanting psalms for change by any means possible. she dreamed of a life on the run and believed by the blood of her fathers she would do whatever it takes to make things right in this world. even if that meant a life of celibacy and abstinence from all things that made her laugh.
he is telling a story, a made up tale about yesterday that includes comments on how high the sun was before it set and how low the tide was when he ran into the dirty lake for a swim. she is smiling. his story telling is pleasing to her. she could listen to him all day but beneath the joy she is wondering what happened to the dreaming girl she use to be. what happened to her plans to end suffering and hunger? in her youth she had tried organized grassroot groups but grew weary of their politics and discontent with the constant relegation of women to backroom duties which included brewing coffee and clean up. leaving the organizing to the would-be politicians she opted for poetic circles in grass filled rooms. philosophizing the night away under the heavy gaze of homeground laureates seemed a reasonable compromise to the pavement pounding with no real direction of the groups her mother thought she might fit in with. eventually she grew tired of them too.
he reaches up to touch her face. his hands a little sticky with syrup are a welcomed warmth. she loves the touch of him. cherishes these small moments much more than the pearls she inherited from her grandmother’s grandmother. kissing his hand gently she reaches in her bag and pulls out a warm wipe. he giggles because the wetness in her grip is ticklish. her heart leaps in her chest at the sheer joy his laughter brings. another wipe to the face and the cherub smiles up at her. standing she tosses her bag across her shoulders and lifts him from his seat. he is happy. the world on her hip, he realizes the revolution has already come.