Sylvia Wynter's Dream

Single file cars on empty roads, lush greenery, and fresh air, what was once my escape was now a path of painful memories. Memories of my navigator, the Leif Erikson of my youth, my flesh and blood compass. You made mastery of every route, knowing each location from nothing but a memory, you took pride in knowing with you there was little possibility of getting lost. Each trip frustrated me, as a child all I wanted was just to enjoy the ride. Now I wish I had paid more attention, and listened closely to the things you tried to show me. Always pointing out the important stops, and now as we take you to your final stop I find myself thinking back to all the places we visited.

I see you sitting next to me, with the brightest of smiles as you point somewhere outside, testing my five-year-old memory, and laughing when I pretended not to use the signs. Now, these country roads don’t breathe joy in me, they leave me with tear-stained shirts and red puffy eyes.

My navigator, my cartographer, flesh and blood compass of my youth.

If I could tell you in plain words I’d tell you these words, without you I am a wanderer but, not all those who wander are lost. The lesson was never about just knowing what town I was in, it was about always knowing how to find myself, using the identification makers of life to make a way out, and getting back to the path I charted for myself. Though these country roads break my heart, they remind me of what I was taught, they remind me of Mr. Coley, my mother’s father, my grandfather, a man of my own heart. The Great Navigator, who showed me even as a child to chart my own path.