The Second Sister — Bearer of Hope
She greeted me with eyes wide open, not startled, but marveling, as though she were seeing the world for the very first time and already loved it.
A toddler cloaked in black and gray satin, her small hands lifted moonflowers toward the sliver of light above, as if to say, "I see the moon, and it sees me." They bloomed before her since she is the night’s first light.
There was a silver shimmer to her, a glow that wasn’t loud but certain. The kind that makes you believe again. She moved with purpose, and her voice carrying the breath of intentions just spoken. In her presence, even fear of the dark seemed to soften.
To black women and girls daring to step into themselves, she sings, Grow at your own pace. Begin where you are. A spark is still light.
She is the whisper of momentum, the first brave note of a song not yet finished. The journey presses on.
The Second Sister — Bearer of Hope
She greeted me with eyes wide open, not startled, but marveling, as though she were seeing the world for the very first time and already loved it.
A toddler cloaked in black and gray satin, her small hands lifted moonflowers toward the sliver of light above, as if to say, "I see the moon, and it sees me." They bloomed before her since she is the night’s first light.
There was a silver shimmer to her, a glow that wasn’t loud but certain. The kind that makes you believe again. She moved with purpose, and her voice carrying the breath of intentions just spoken. In her presence, even fear of the dark seemed to soften.
To black women and girls daring to step into themselves, she sings, Grow at your own pace. Begin where you are. A spark is still light.
She is the whisper of momentum, the first brave note of a song not yet finished. The journey presses on.
Mixed media on canvas
20x24
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