Spineless

friendship punch

friendship punch

The secret to the perfect friendship punch is the right amount of pineapple juice

Other little black girls,their grandmas made sweet tea or lemonade
or orange juice
But mine, mine, she made friendship punch

Every graduation, funeral, family reunion, maternal brunch, wedding, Easter Dinner, Father's Day and Mother's Day- you could count on spotting that crystal bowl filled with her potion

The elixer that produced smiles, and laughter and sometimes
-more Howards
It was just as essential as the sweet potato pie, mac and cheese, and oxtails

Nobody makes mac and cheese or friendship punch like my grandma did
I ain't neva met another woman like my grandma

A black woman, strong but vulnerable, a fighter, the heart of our family, a prophetess, a preacher, a teacher, a mentor, a mother, a wife, a Queen
A black woman, Florine Eleanor, my grandma

Sometimes I joke the reason I finally went vegan after my grandma's death
is because ain't nobody in the world put they foot in some greens like my grandma did

But it was the first stroke
The one that followed her texts to me "Call me" then "You've just thrown me away, you haven't come by to see me in forever"

It was the first hole that opened in my heart when I learned she was no longer taking her blood pressure medication
When I discovered she had diabetes and hadn't told me

It was the second stroke
when I heard how she'd gone to the same church she ministered to and recieved prayer for healing

I was taken back to the last family get-together, when she'd pulled me and my sisters to the side
Told us "I'm going to be transitioning soon, I need y'all to be ready." And we laughed at her
And when she died our laughter was stolen from us, our words were stolen from us, our peace was stolen from us, our very breath was stolen from us

And I still haven't taken a full breath since
the gaping hollow in my heart will not allow me

When I close my eyes I see her face, dark chocolate and smooth
dark and beautiful like the coolest night, vibrant brown eyes, short, thick hair
and I hear her voice a lilt of a southern cadence coated in Bajan
a sweet, sweet mixture that clung to her tongue like honey, a sweet mixture like her Friendship Punch

And my grandma
knew how to share her sweetness
knew how to pour out pieces of herself into other's cups

brought women and men and children together with the perfect brew of juices and cane sugar
knew how to create something out of damn near nothing
knew how to manifest serenity in the midst of suffering

She knew how to quell the moans of trauma
how to quiet the sounds of chains rattling
freshen the smell of flesh burning
clean up the stain that wooden ships, whips, strange fruit, water hoses, men in blue, dank cells, bombings and shootings, and beatings left on our souls, in the marrow of our bones, in the depths of our DNA

With just one sip of friendship punch

-eh