Tears for Mima

Mi si daon…

long blak sandpis.

Long wan smol aelan,

longwe… long ples bilong mi.

Mi… pikinini bilong solwara.

Solwara… i save nem bilong mi.

It whispers stories only I understand.

Of my Tuta,

my grandmother…

calling on our sentient kin of the sea…

for help.

Of a vava,

an aunt,

weaving a tangbunia,

whispering stories into her weave,

preparing for the next hogoniva…

the bridal shower.

Of her—

my melanated mama…

fondly, Mima.

She held the fire in the kitchen,

the warmth in her laughter,

the strength in her silence.

Now…

it is the colour of sunset red,

as if the deep itself…

had cried tears too.

Red… with a tint of yellow.

Like her hair…

soaked in that Melanesian gene,

strong like wild sugarcane,

sweet… like mango in the midday heat.

Mi si daon.

Karae sori.

Ol tias bilong mi i foldaon,

back into the sea…

the only home… my soul knows.

Solwora i karem evri tias,

carry my grief back to the depths,

soften the sorrow…

like a polished black stone.

I am the shore…

I am the polished black stone,

steady and enduring like the mangroves.

I am Solwora Meri—

endless and connected,

like the voyaging stars.

And in this moment,

with the waves brushing soft at my feet,

and her memory… close,

I am free.

I listen.

I breathe.

I am.

I am… Solwora Meri.

And the sea… is my home.

And she—Mima, my mama

is the red in the sky,

the black in the sand,

the salt… in my tears.