Angels in My Bloodline

I was raised in a circle of wings.

Living, breathing, vessels of flight.

Their halos were crowns.

Drenched in robes that carried families.

Their prayers stitched heaven into every day.

Black women

with fire in their chests

and tenderness in their hands.

My mother, her sisters,

My granny, her sisters,

eight pillars of light surrounding me like sentinels,

lifting me when the world pressed heavy.

They moved like angels do,

humming with laughter,

fussing with love,

cooking hope into every meal,

and pressing wisdom into my palms.

When storms came,

they didn’t just shield me,

they taught me to be the sun

that shined through.

When I wandered far

down winding roads,

across oceans,

into cities where no one knew my name

their blessings traveled with me.

Invisible hands stretched wide,

protecting my steps,

reminding me: You are never alone.

Along the way, I met others,

strangers who saw me,

who spoke encouragement into my spirit,

who reminded me of home with a glance,

a nod, a word of faith.

They were angels too

guiding lights,

adding to the chorus of voices

that have always carried me forward.

And now,

I’ve made an angel of my own.

My daughter, a Black woman in the making,

a reflection of every matriarch before her.

She is my compass, my future’s whisper,

a guide with kinky curls and bright eyes,

who teaches me just as much as I teach her.

These women,

my angels, didn't fall from the sky

they rose from the soil, rooted in resilience.

Blooming with every scar.

Every sacrifice, a hymn.

I walk today with their voices in my ear,

their strength in my spine,

their light in my path.

If you ever wonder what an angel looks like,

don’t search the clouds.

Look to the women who held me up,

who sent me safely forward,

and who shine through the child I now raise.

Black women, the angels of my bloodline.