MIND'S EYE

Taking my seat in my usual row on the A train, I take my backpack off my shoulder and place it in my lap. Another morning - same commuters, same subway car, same destination - 50th St, High School of the Performing Arts.

“Downtown Express,” is heard through muzzled speakers.

Through my headphones I listen to a podcast with fiber artist Misa Butler. I turn up the volume to drown out the rumblings of the train.

I pull out my black sketch book. Folded and tucked in the back are two letters; one I received just yesterday, now tear-stained.

I rifle through endless portraits of fellow commuters; trying to find solace in their faces, each one telling a story. The woman I’ve drawn the most sits diagonally across from me. She’s an Old Woman dressed in a mauve trench coat and a matching hat, the kind old Black ladies wear on Sunday mornings. In her lap, she’s cradles a vintage hat box. Every morning. Same seat. Same hat box. She has eyes like my grandmother’s, full of longing yet determined.

We’ve never spoken, but always acknowledge each other with a nod. This morning, however, is different. She doesn’t look my way, but seems distant, with her head down and eyes averted. I stare at her for a moment, then shrug it off, continuing to flip through my sketch book.

I land on my self portrait and take a deep breath. With intense focus, I gaze at my mirror-image on the page. It comes to life, smiling back at me. I close my eyes and wonder what dimension I’ll be thrust into this time. In an instant my weightless body hovers above my physical self. I am pure energy now.

I’m transported to a vast, endless field of flowers. I marvel at the breathtaking sea of purple surrounding me - a shade I’ve never seen before. The deep green blades of grass with their violet flowers slowly part, creating a wide open path for me to follow. A figure appears in the distance. As it moves towards me, it creates a magnetic pull that I can’t resist. My feet no longer touching the ground.

The contour of its body expands with each forward movement. Upon me now, I’m mesmerized by its beauty. Her beauty. Her skin, charcoal. Her eyes, a deep purple. Her hair white and wild. She towers over me, her shadow providing shade and sanctuary.

“She returns,” the figure announces, her voice deep and melodious.

“We’ve been waiting for you Nalla. Come! We’ve much to see and little time. The train will be puling in soon.”

“Is that you Bibi Mkubwa?” I say.

“It is me young one. Take my hand. More ancestors await.” And with a gust of wind, I’m carried away to another time and place.

We drift into darkness. Just as quickly as darkness is upon us, we're suddenly jolted into light, surrounded by luminous beings who circle around us. Their energy feels familiar. Real or imagined, I’ve drawn them all before.

Their voices resonate in my mind, telling me I am welcome. I am safe.

“You are of age now young one. It is time to open your mind’s eye,” says Bibi Mkubwa.

“What do you mean, Bibi Mkubwa?” She gently presses her finger to the center of my brow as if massaging the front of my brain.

“The entire Universe resides here, across all time and space,” she says.

I don’t understand, I tell myself.

“You will,” Bibi Mkubwa says, answering my thoughts.

“Your mind’s eye is your gateway to all things known and unknown. You already possess this power within you.”

“But my sketch book—”

“Close your eyes Nalla,” Bibi Mkubwa interrupts me.

A force takes hold of me and I’m unable to move, as if my limbs are paralyzed. I feel a growing pressure in my forehead. My eyes are closed but I can see everything. My hands, fingers, my entire body fill with light. I don’t know where my body ends and the light begins.

All my senses are heightened. I see visions of my older self in a gallery surrounded by life-size drawings of people and places not from this world - my drawings. I see myself climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. Then, from my bird’s eye view I see the Great Wildebeest Migration - millions of animals beneath me crossing the Serengeti and Masai Mara.

Everything is illuminated.

All of a sudden I hear a roar of the train entering the station, then a muzzled voice, “50th Street. Transfer to the C or E train.” I’m jolted back into my body. The wind knocked out of me, I gasp for air, disoriented.

Commuters exit hurriedly. I grab my backpack and rush off, barely slipping through the closing doors.

I stand on the platform, not fully in my body. What just happened? I touch the center of my brow, my forehead still filled with pressure. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. When I put my headphones in my backpack, I look inside for my sketch book.

Damnit! I don’t see it. Panic-stricken, I look around the platform. It’s nowhere to be found.

“No. No. Noooo!” I cry out looking down the dark tunnel - the A train now long gone. People stare. I run upstairs to the station booth agent. “Ma’am, the express A train downtown; I left my book on the train. Can you please help me get it?”

“You can check in with lost and found at the next stop,” she says.

“Can you call that station for me?” I ask.

“No, but you can catch the next train downtown to see if anyone turned it in. Usually items don’t get to lost and found that quick. May take a day or two, if it gets there at all. Go online and file a claim. I’m sorry, honey. Nothing I can do. Just have to wait to see if it turns up.”

I bury my head in my hands in disbelief. The pressure I feel in my forehead is now a full blown headache.

The next morning, still distraught and in a daze after a long, sleepless night, I board the A train. Only this time with no plan to get off at my usual stop. I’m headed the next one in the hopes that someone turned in my book. The old woman who’d always sat across from me, whose face I’d drawn many times unbeknownst to her, is now seated in my row with her usual vintage hat box in tow. Only the day before she seemed sad and distant. As I took the seat beside her, I notice a twinkle in her eye.

Not in the mood for pleasantries, I feign a smile and put on headphones to drown out my sadness. I close my eyes as the train takes off for its long stretch from 168th to 125th Street. I feel the rumbling of the train’s wheels moving swiftly along the tracks, its vibration possessing every cell in my body.

I feel a nudge on my arm. As I slowly open my eyes, I see my book staring back at me.

“Is this your sketch book?” the old woman asks.

I see her mouth moving, but I don’t hear the question. I pull off my headphones and grab my book, but she does’t let go.

“This is my book!” I say defiantly.

“This here book is magic,” she says like a grandmother scolding her grandchild.

I look at her out of the corner of my eye, ready to grab my book and run but think otherwise.

“What’s so special about it?” I ask instead.

“Well, for one, you sketch beautifully,” she says smiling; her compliment softens me.

The old woman opens the book to her portrait, “No one’s drawn me in fifty years.”

I pull the book from her again, but she still won’t let go.

“It took me back,” she says.

“Back where?” I ask.

“When I opened this book and saw myself, a spirit came over me and took me back to my 20s, in Harlem.” The old woman stops speaking and looks around the train to see if anyone is listening. “When Carrie Mae and I were… were together.”

Excitement then sadness washes over her face. “It was a long time ago. My god, we had so much fun, she and I,” her voice quivers with tenderness. “Your book took me back to her.”

“It helped you remember?” I ask.

“Nah, I was there in flesh and bone!” she howled.

“Carrie Mae and I drank and laughed and danced and love up on each other until the sun come up! That’s when I come to. I come back to my body. My god, I’ve never felt so free!”

“Look here young lady,” her hand still holding firm to my book. She leans in and whispers in my ear, “I got something you need.”

She hands me her vintage hat box. “I don’t want this. Give me my book, Lady!” I’m agitated now.

“Go on, look inside,” she whispers.

I reluctantly let go of my book and slowly open the hat box.

The unbelievable stares back at me. I quickly close the box and look around the train to see if anyone else is watching me.

“That’s all yours,” the old woman says.

My eyes widen and I pull away from her in disbelief, “How much is this?” I ask bewildered.

“Enough. And it’s all yours in exchange for this book.” She pulls out my two folded letters tucked in the back of the book. One, my acceptance letter into the Art College of my dreams, and the other… my tear-stained letter requesting the $20,000 tuition I can’t afford.

She looks me square in the eye, “Take this box and don’t look back. Everything you need is in this box, and in there,” she gently touches my forehead with the tip of her finger.

My mind’s racing, conflicted about what to do. I think of Bibi Mkubwa. My sketch book is my portal to her. Will I see and feel Bibi again?

I suddenly hear Bibi Mkubwa’s voice in my head, “Your mind’s eye is your gateway to all things known and unknown. You already possess this power within you.”

The train slows as it pulls into the 50th Street station. “This is your stop young lady.”

I look at the hat box, then my book. I take the deepest breath I think I’ve ever taken. I look at the old woman and smile. “Thank you.”

I exit with my backpack and the hat box, and don’t look back.

The end. And the beginning…