The Alchemist

The Original Alchemist.

The woman who sang over our food.
Not just to flavor it, but to charge it.
Stirred healing into every pot
seasoned life with grace and made greens taste like gospel

It’s an indescribable feeling.
You just always felt so so so good afterwards.
You always wondered why yours or anyone else’s can come close or top your grandmother’s.

Nobody else could replicate her hands.
Nobody can do what she does in the kitchen,
because what she cooked with couldn’t be bought—
she cooked with spirit and prayer.
The love she poured, you just felt.

The woman who never ate before she said grace,
bowed her head, whispered thanks,
and asked for nourishment to reach further than the meal.
For it to fill our bodies, minds, and souls with nourishment and healing.

The woman who wrapped us into her deep embrace—
as she spoke words of love and affirmed protection over us without a sound—
just quiet, gentle rocking,
and a kiss on our crown.

The woman who called just to hear us speak and sometimes just breath,
and she smiled with the phone placed to her ear because she knew we needed this.
The woman who didn’t want much, just quality time.

The woman who never judged us.
The woman who could never see no wrong in your doings.
The woman who never forced anything out of you.
She saw our ugly, our mess and still named us beautiful.
Held space instead of grudges.
The woman who was patient.
The woman who forgave us before we knew we’d need forgiveness.

The woman who had the whole world on her back,
through her pain and anguish, still made magic.
Still made a way.
Still kept a roof over our heads.
Still kept food on the table.
Still kept a home for us to always run to if we needed it.
Still kept cash in her wallet in case she ran into us.
Still kept genuine love for us in her broken heart.
Still showed up for us.

For some, the woman is their mother.
But for me? 
She was my grandmother.
The root of my tree. 
The true alchemist.
A healer.

Years later and her prayers still hold weight.
No longer walking this earth in the vessel I’ve known—
yet, the protection I can still feel.
Her love still my bones.
Her guidance still leading me.

So I sing over my babies food,
and one day their babies too.
So I pray over them.
So I speak life into their days.
So I warmly embrace them and feed them my love.
So I build our home on warmth and not walls—
they’ll know that home is always where I am.
So I’ll hold space for them, the way she did.
So I’ll be patient and forgiving with them.
So I’ll show up for them,
even when I’m tired—
because she did.

The Alchemist.
Grandmothers been transmuting pain into power.
scraps into feasts,
herbs into healing,
gossip into gospel,
and silence into safety
since before we had language for it.

The kitchen was her lab.
Her hands the tool.
Her wisdom? Ancestral, intuitive, and spirit-led.
Knew how to stir prayers into pots,
whisper protection into bath water,
and birth life with grace.

The original alchemist.Alchemy isn’t pretty, sunshine, flowers, and rainbows.
It’s not a fantasy.
It’s the Black Grandmother.
The medicine woman.
The priestess.
The root worker.
The soul chef.
The gardener.
The farmer.
The healer.

Alchemy isn’t turning lead into gold—
it’s turning nothing into everything.

The one that taught me love is more than a word.
Love is an action.
A frequency.

Forever grateful to the woman who allowed me to be a reflection of her love. Who showed me how to pour into others. Who taught me to make something out of nothing. 

And now, I carry her flame.

The Original Alchemist.