Littoral

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.

me and pépère.   his hand behind my head,   making ears.   mine holding a notepad   like i already knew i’d need one.

we didn’t match.   not in skin.   not in story.   but for a moment,   we belonged to the same living room.

transracial adoption doesn’t leave space   for moments like this.   too tender.   too confusing.   too real.

but this was family.   not the kind they put in pamphlets—   the kind you survive through.

summer 2020.   a balcony,   a clothesline,   and the masks we wore like breath.

orange. black. floral.   each one a gesture,   a compromise,   a signal.

there was nothing romantic about it—   but still,   they dried in the sun   like any other laundry.

a new kind of intimacy:   fabric, filtered air,   what we held between us   and what we didn’t.