Littoral

found in glasgow.   a plaque for john a macdonald.   quiet.   official.

the story is familiar.   lawyer. prime minister. nation-builder.   but here, the stones don’t pretend neutrality.   they know what they financed.

the plaques change languages,   but the story stays the same.

the empire loops.   it reappears in bronze and sandstone,   across oceans,   still naming itself as legacy   instead of violence.

spotted in a museum across the ocean. a totem pole far from the coast from which it came.

the plaque talked about artistry.   not land.   not theft.   not how many hands it passed through   before arriving here, under spotlights.

i didn’t read the full description.   didn’t want to.   the object already said more than the label ever could.

some things don’t lose power   just because they’ve been displaced.

the symmetry felt like a question   no one was answering.

sometimes the wait stretches   longer than the journey.   sometimes the quiet   is what stays with you.

i sat and cried.   not loudly.   just enough to feel it leave my body   a little at a time.

an older woman beside me   was crying too.   i passed her a tissue.   we didn’t speak.

above us: the water fell,   the light held.   a circle that didn’t ask anything from us.

grief moved between strangers.   not for explanation.   not for closure.   just to be felt   together.

left lisbon.   mozambique.   maranhão.

it’s written cleanly,   like logistics.   like movement is neutral.

but this isn’t a voyage.   it’s a structure.

i stood in dc,   beneath that sentence carved into the wall,   and felt how small   archives can make the wound.

western cape archives, south africa.   reference number.   no names.

the record survives.   the people weren't meant to.

they want our names   on brochures, on panels,   in dei reports and photo ops.

but when we ask for a living wage—   suddenly, there’s no budget.

we are not the brand.   we’re the labour.

the wind caught the flag just right.   visible, like it was saying   we’re still here.   we’re not backing down.

nothing about this was symbolic.   it was material.   and we were many.

not a burden. not a task. just the feel of small arms around your shoulders and the weight of someone who trusts you without question.

we walked like this for a while. no rush. no reason to explain it.

sometimes care is this simple— a body held steady, a sidewalk warming in the sun, and the quiet joy of being leaned on without breaking.

no sirens. no slogans. just fabric, thread, and a sentence that refuses.

it didn’t need to shout. it just held its place. between shadow and sunlight, between the kids and the street.

not everything needs to escalate. sometimes you hang the banner and let it breathe.

first birthday in lockdown.   three candles,   a wooden tray,   a cake too beautiful to eat fast.

no party.   no gathering.   just this—   a soft pause at the end of a year   that didn’t make sense.

i didn’t wish for anything big.   just to stay close   to whatever still felt like care.

the crowd was gone.   the chants had faded.   but the sign was still in my hands.

i sat down for a moment   while i waited for the train.

travailleur de la santé contre le racisme systémique isn't a slogan. just a fact i live with and sometimes fight through.

justice pour joyce   because grief doesn't end   when the protest does.