Beautiful Darkness

We can easily forgive a child
who is afraid of the dark;
the real tragedy of life is when
men are afraid of the light.
--PLATO

I can't explain what it was like to see Amma and four generations of the spirits of her ancestors towering above her, like the faces from old black and white pictures. I recognized Ivy from the visions, her dark skin gleaming, dressed in a high-necked blouse and calico skirt. But she looked more intimidating than she had in the visions, and the only one who looked fiercer stood to her right, her hand on Ivy's shoulder. She had a ring on every finger, and she was wearing a long dress that looked like it had been stitched from silk scarves, with a tiny bird embroidered on the shoulder. I was staring at Sulla the Prophet, and she made Amma look about as harmless as a Sunday school teacher. There were two other women, most likely Aunt Delilah and Sister, and an old man, his face punished by the sun, standing in the back with a beard that would've put Moses to shame. Uncle Abner. I wished I had some Wild Turkey for him. The Greats tightened their circle around Amma, chanting the same verse again and again, in Gullah, the original language of her family. Amma repeated the same verse in English, shaking the beads and bone, shouting to the heavens.

Amma and the Greats.