I am her and she is me
She was shining near me and above me
At me and through me,
I couldn’t see her but she could see me.
Maybe it was a signal.
Screaming out my name
A faint whisper,
Causing my body to shiver at the thought that she was real.
All I could see is Nefertiti staring up back at me. Her cool long neck and direct stare
topped off with her golden skin. Your blood running through her veins, pumping life back into
her ancient form, thousands of years of intrigue joined into one. The ink from her defined lines
smoothed over your brown skin was intertwined with your glory. Merged together for life, she
rested on your arm, as a reminder of the queen I would never be. She was perfection.
I was me.
Her memory is stained into your conscious— a clear symbol of womanhood. Her spirit
haunts me, reigning over my imagination as she did her masses, unyielding and strong. I try to
level with her image but she wins every time. It’s a simple realization; my beauty won’t be
remembered throughout the ages and I won’t be a symbol of the perfect wife.
The closest thing to her glory was snatched away from me years ago. I remember our last
memory together like it was yesterday. I was five and my grandmother was in a nursing home.
Everything was white. The walls didn’t talk, the doors didn’t creak, and you didn’t hear
your feet sliding across the floor. But there were people. Lots of them. Every few seconds
someone was going in and out of rooms nodding trying to reassure us. My little eyes glanced up
and down as I searched for her. Ten little brown toes pressed into my pink jelly sandals. My head
swayed left, right, and behind me. Maybe we passed her up the hall. Maybe she wasn’t there at
all. I was so sure we had missed her.
The wheels of her wheelchair were turning faster and faster as we sped down the hall. My
bare feet pushed off propelling us on our last adventure. I don’t know how we started, I don’t
know where we ended, I don’t know if we crashed, and I don’t know who stopped us.
She died a week later.
She was my Nefertiti. Glorious and proud she stood strong, rested strong, and dreamed
even stronger. Her smile peaked through those soft brown lips the same way I peeked through
her door every morning to see if she was awake. I can’t remember the ways she held me in her
arms, rocked me, kissed my fresh skin and laid me down to sleep. But my mother tells me about
those days. Those days were my bright eyes popped open in excitement to hear her voice, hold
her hand, and be transfixed by her beauty. My fragile mind has tried to eliminate her greatness
pushing her reality and my understanding of truth away from each other. I cling on to her image
for dear life as if finding her will lead me closer to heaven. Beloved, let us love one another, for
love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God.
I worship her the same way you worship that character tattooed on your arm. Instead she
is pierced into my heart. Her spirit was inspired into my being giving me the breath of life,
making me a living soul. Her beauty has lived through generations gifting me with beautiful
golden brown skin and a smile that shyly peaks from my brown lips.
Our love is maternal.
A bond that exceeds paternal understanding. We are connected for life. A lineage that
passes through Isis shines on Nefertiti, trickles down to my grandmother, and breaths through
me.
We are bonded by womanhood.