These were the sounds of the chains. As she sharpened her stones against the rocks of the river, we stood in the ice-chilled waters. She would shout, “This cut is for freedom! This stone is for our empowerment!” The sharpest stone was for the roughest skin and the bloodiest cut came with the loudest scream.
Ten years later, the stitches of my freedom were torn apart. They drained rain whenever they could. Then it dawned on me, slaves could not set others free unless they uncuffed their chains.
“Please uncuff me,” I cried, “make me dry again!”