played a soundtrack I would learn the words to for nine months, her heartbeat the rhythm that taught my limbs to move.
[I] unplugged from her cord, heard the beat repeat everywhere. Memorized every thump and drum syncopation. Now when I hear the tones of my mother’s song, I go running.
The boom, cat, crash, blat, drumbeats remind me I am still connected. Boom, bap, clack, clack, boom, bap is the cadence of my ancestors. Their vibrant metronome alive in the sounds around me:
hand claps and foot stomps, hitting cups on counters, tapping pen to desk, thumbing decks of cards, metal spoons hitting pot pans, cackling laughter, the slap of hands to knees, mother’s feet shuffling around a makeshift dance floor.
These sounds are the pulse of people determined to make their vibration last, determined to hear their echo repeat.