renaissance || beyonce • aaliyah

sixteen.

"Y'all want somethin' to drink? I got sweet tea, water, and, uh...some lemonade..." His voice trailed off as he turned away, busying himself in the kitchen, giving me a chance to look around.

A large bookshelf sat opposite the couch, and I drifted towards it, admiring the photos that dotted the shelf. My uncle had captured moments throughout his life—moments of great importance, and moments so small, so insignificant, yet now immortalized in the photo, the details forever etched into the mind, never forgotten.

He treasured his film camera, occasionally spending entire weekends sequestered away in his makeshift darkroom, emerging only when his latest photographs were finished, the images preserved on glossy paper.

I smiled as I spotted a photo of Solange as a baby, a wide toothless grin lighting up her chubby face as she stared up at the camera, a single chubby fist raised in triumph, holding the camera strap as though it were a trophy.

In another, I caught a glimpse of myself, no older than six, with a smear of ice cream running down my mouth as I laughed at the camera.

My fingers skimmed across the frame as I remembered the day: the ice cream melting into the heat of the sun, making the cone nearly impossible to hold on to.

The sticky mess had been worth the joy of that day, even with the punishment that followed for ruining my sundress.

My father had a strong disdain for desserts.

Anything sweet.

Anything with sugar in its tank, so to speak.

It was messy.

I would need to learn how to control myself.

Always left a stain wherever it was.

How unbecoming it was to see a young lady covered in and surrounded by the remnants of something so impure, so indulgent.

He never liked the idea of a child of his indulging in such frivolities, so I learned to keep it hidden, taking the smallest of bites as the minutes ticked by, waiting for the opportune time to finish it off.

The ice cream had been worth the lecture that followed, the sting of his palm on my cheeks, the tears that threatened to fall, but refused to obey, and the cold dismissal, followed by a week of silence.

But my uncle had taken pity on me before heading home that day.

He'd whisked me away, a smile on his face as he wiped the ice cream from my hands and cheeks with tissue.

The fear of taint and ruin was left behind as we drove back to my house to drop me off, and I could still feel the wind whipping through the truck cab as the windows were rolled down, the music turned up, and our laughter sang along.

The fireflies always began to light up the twilight as Uncle Johnny and I found our familiar spot on the tailgate of his old pickup.

The air was filled with the earthy scent of the vast open land. We would sit side by side, our gaze lost in the dance of those tiny, bioluminescent creatures that seemed to echo the stars above.

"This right here," he started, his voice a low rumble, "it's more than just piss, dirt, and grass or whatever shit your father chooses to call it. It's where I'll see my dreams take root and grow."

I knew his stories by heart—the triumphs and trials, the roar of the crowd as he cleared jump after jump, his horse and him moving as one. But here, in the soft glow of dusk, those stories took on a different hue. They were quieter, more intimate. They were not about the medals and the glory but about the dreams of open spaces, of freedom, and of legacy.