I am waiting to hear music.
Wait with me. I have been waiting and it is coming, I am sure of it.
It is deep and long.
It is earthy and sooty.
I think someone once told me my ancestors are the reason I long for dark notes. As if the low notes are the sorrow of my African Ancestors. The deepness is my black side.
If I sing an octave higher am I yearning for my white? Am I betraying my skin? My brownness that has been called Spanish, Brazilian, Ethiopian, African-American, and more.
I am waiting to hear music that defines the way my hands and feet move and how my eyebrows curve.
I am waiting to hear music that describes the way wind hits a single leaf and forces it to the ground.
I am waiting to hear music that tells me what love death melancholy anger is when I am not in them.
I am waiting for music because I am worried that memories captured with words can never say enough of what I want to say. The words only moisten the idea while music floods with meaning.