The day was long with the beating sun, yet appear they did, wearing their culture on the tip of their tongues. They came, dressed in brightly colored cloth, with hands open wide and truth to bear, on the earthen floor of my Liberian home. They came to sing a song of Amazing Grace, as pure as ever and could ever be.
So exquisite they were, as their voices rose, painting a picture that uplifted us all, that called fields of rice to yield and large pots of water to nourish and heal, creating such masterpieces out of nothing at all.
The song sent quivers across the room, and lingered there for the earth to hear. It made me see, and opened walls, as truth grew closer and tenderness called. Three Liberian women, living their lives in a thatched village far out of sight, filling my soul—right there and forevermore—as we shared untold stories kept hidden in floors.
Oh how I yearn, again and once more, to feel the embrace and hear the breath of their alluring grace. But for now so I sit, with what memory I keep, while I trace their enduring imprint on the essence of the human race.