i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
this past was waiting for me
when i came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and i with my mother’s itch
took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.
Lucille Clifton
I wish I could say that I’ve known about Ms. Clifton all along, but that would be a lie. I found out she lived – and wrote and inspired and made people laugh and cry and hope – mainly because she died, and many of the people who did know her or her work have been writing about what she meant to them.
She is gone now, but I still have the work of a lifetime to get to know.
