When I was a kid, I would watch my grandmother sitting on the couch and listening to music. My grandmother was a small woman under 5 feet tall, with light brown skin, with a sturdy stature. She would rest and tell us to put on the Blues. I would sit near her, listening with her, but mostly watching her as we were enveloped by sound. Inevitably, her eyes would close, and her right foot would rhythmically float and bounce. She did not always know the lyrics, but she would hum along with the music. It was as if she had been transported to another place. Sometimes, a smile would grace her lips and at other times, I would see the glint of tears in her eyes. It was as if she were touching into some type of comfort or knowing deep within her body. I never asked her what was happening and where she appeared to go. At the age of 8 or 9, I merely thought that she liked listening to the Blues. It was not until many years after her homegoing that I understood what was happening in her spirit. I, too, can touch the knowledge that is bone-deep.

These memories and reflections have me thinking about what it is like to hold a space for the sweet lament and shared understanding of the variety of African diasporic experiences in the United States. Being able to touch into pain and the beauty of reflection while also acknowledging the genius, creativity, and outlet to transmit the opportunities for collective care. Now is the time to go bone-deep, to seek reprieve, and never forget the legacy of resistance, resilience, and love amidst chaos and suffering.