Gemotions

My sister's announcement, a newfound devotion to Rastafarianism, was delivered with a gentle smile and a plate of Ital stew. I picked at the colourful vegetables, the unfamiliar flavours a distraction. Her dreadlocks, usually a part of her, suddenly looked like a symbol of defiance.

She spoke of Jah and unity and a rejection of materialism. Her voice, usually soothing, grated on my nerves. I found myself focusing on the intricate patterns on the tablecloth, tracing them with my finger.

Later, walking home, the city lights seemed to mock me. Why couldn't she be content with things? The stars were indifferent to my confusion.