woman

Dear Kairo, Unmeasured!

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I am the woman who still looks at the sky as if it were a canvas painted just for me—bold, impossible, alive with a grandeur that refuses to be ignored. While the world claws at my sleeves, demanding hurry and hardness, I tilt my head back and dare the heavens to speak. And they do. In streaks of fire at dusk, in bruised storm clouds gathering like ancient gods, in the quiet blue that stretches so wide it threatens to break my heart open.
I stand beneath that vastness and feel something rise in me—something untamed, something unashamed. The sky does not ask me to shrink. It does not measure me, or question the weight I carry. It simply opens, limitless, and in its openness I remember the part of myself that refuses to be small. I am my parent’s child, your friendly neighborhood merry andrew.

Yours in soft lighting,
Eloi Ahoy

Witted Shadow

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IMG_8107

Every new month is like adding a page to the book that is our lives, each with its stories and blessings, new music to our ears, new sound in the accordion, the poem on the corner.

It is March, the third month of the year or as we say on the streets, the second full blown month of laughter, smile, fun and jamboree. The sun is out, the spring peeks in, the leaves are saying hello and the birds sideways quietly singing the melody.

It is time to celebrate woman, us, grandmothers, mothers, sisters, aunts, daughter, girlfriends, us; the best friend, the sharp-witted shadow, your mirror in the powder room, the incessant lover, the proud your secret carrier card member, the tough cookie in the carousel, the cryer in the closet, the eternal artist, the rock star listener, the truth teller, the soldier in the room, the amen companion. It is March, it is us, women, it is March.