She

Her skin wrinkles up more when she smiles. Deep grooves creating cravasses which meander down the valley towards the corners of her river mouth. Her eyes are big blue sky sitting up above sharp cheek bones, high hills drawing down toward her clean marbled smile. Dentures. The only thing fake about her. Squared perfectly at her parting lips. If only gravity weren't so cruel to keep pulling them from her gums with each word. She grabs my hand with her sandpaper grip and pulls me to look inside deeply. "Where's my suga" she sternly enquires and only cracks the hills of laughter after my accumulating tonga wit. I submit to gifting 1kg and see the sparkle of a woman who's eyes show gratitude only suffering can bring. 80 plus years of life gives her a clarity that I see but rarely. She knows things I have only splashed through in a shallow puddle. Her path has taken her across oceans of understanding, save having ever stepped out of the village. She encompasses Zambian women to me, and experiences I don't know how to talk about. Walking barefoot with a confident, yet broken gait. She is mostly silent, yet has a firm depth in which I sense anger, pain, fear, loss, betrayal, apathy, courage, confusion, understanding, strength, compassion, love. She is solitude, playing with solidarity, and mere words don't encapsulate her existence. She is the essense of why I can't write recently, because condensing an inarticulate summary doesn't work. I don't know what to say really, and don't feel as though I have a whole lot to contribute. Honesty isn't all that pretty most days, and I don't like being insincere. To romanticize flashes of my experience seems like a cover up for the majority of days which leave me cynical. Timing is seeing me through an encounter, one which I have yet to gain distance and perspective on. So sitting in the thick of it brings me a range of unsorted emotions. I am ready to go, yet I'm not. I will continue to learn, and I am already aware of what I will miss. It's women like her, who's unforgiving persona penetrates the core of me, and overwhelmes me with both clarity and questions. She has strength to overcome things I never will need to, and she articulates without a word. She is a mother, she is profoundly complex, she is Zambia, she is the world.