glimpses of nana

by Jada Gordon

While gardening, my hands dig deeper into the earth. Softest wet ground. Reaching with

my grandmother's spirit. I swear I feel the south in the orbit of my palms. I pull weeds

without gloves and massage the vines and leaves. Baby cherry tomatoes blush in the

daylight. Thinking of the stories my mother told me. How my Nana didn't know what the

great depression was. They had an abundance of crops and fruits to feed on. The

sharecropper song. She hated picking cotton and what it did to her hands. She'd put

rocks in the bottom of the bag to weigh it down. There's always been an emphasis on

clean hands in my family. I scrub off the lye that singed my Nana's once youthful hands.

Every careful defiance makes her soul sing. I want her to bloom with life and vitality like

my jalapeños. I dug them out too soon. They were ahead of their time. Daring to make

an escape like I am, every story I've heard of my Nana feels like a picture caught her in

motion. Never stagnant. Never settling. Battling a world that burns labels into a Black

woman's back. Her hands always remained clean, lotioned, and presentable. She's a

lavender refreshing the garden. Bending, swaying but not folding. Her fists were rocks,

her voice thunder. In my box at the community garden, she rests, as the lavender and

peppermint oil I lather into my hair finds its place in my follicles. The smell so strong my

eyes fill to the brim with tears. I cry for her, the roots of the crops, the roots of her pain,

and the roots of my hair. The joy acquired in the distance.

Jada Gordon is a New York City-based writer, journalist, editor, and photographer. Their work centers around girlhood, sexuality, nature, gender, and family. Their work has been featured in Sula Magazine, Poetry & Performance 47,48, & 49, La Libreta, Stuck In the Library, Indolent Books, & KGB Bar Lit Magazine.