And I’m not lying. I tell people, “I’m trying” because really, I am. But my heart breaks every single day still, and it feels like I’m watching the world crumble before my eyes.
People don’t want to be around the grieving ones.
It puts them in a place of discomfort — shifts them from good times to “Is this still happening?” and since I can’t quite answer their questions, I bubble up in the safety of my home and swat at the hard times slowly creeping up my stairs.
If you were to tell me this would be my life ten years ago, I would’ve uttered some common phrases like, “The Devil is a lie” or “You can’t predict the future,” and I would’ve swiped my tongue gingerly across my two front teeth.
Nothing can bring hell like the death of a loved one — like the sound of one heart breaking into a million pieces and scattering itself throughout your entire body.
How does it feel to walk around with your insides regrouping while you find your center?
I am told it’s okay to struggle — to flounce about with my head bowed, searching for the writing in the dirt under my feet. Where there’s dust, there also will I be …
I don’t want to dissolve into the muddy waters of this stomach-churning world, so I pull myself out of the quicksand of despair and snail on while I still can.
I wish you were still here. I am second-guessing myself again. It’s almost like a default setting, and every time I try to move through it, I sink even deeper.
I have trouble seeing past my most hated self — it’s hard to shove that part of me deep into a closet and throw away the key.
I feel like I have to soon, though. Because if I don’t, the sun will back away from me and never lay itself at my heels again. And that, my beautiful cousin, would be a life I don’t want to live.
I am an open book with a tired spine. I am not an only child — the eldest of seven. I creep beneath the sun’s shadows on cloudy days and savor a subtle breeze as it blows haphazardly in my direction.
Not a smoker. Not a drinker. Not a person who cares if you do or don’t, as long as you aren’t bringing harm to others — do as you please. I won’t sit back and keep my tongue on pause when a situation/action/ordeal rubs me the wrong way.
I am not your best friend’s best thing. Not a visual artist. Not a fan of everyone merging into one another. Where is the ability to be unique — to stand out from the crowd?
The bandwagon is toppling. We need to lighten the load.
I am not a night owl — not a club-hopper, can’t tell you the last time I’ve allowed someone to get within six feet of me if they weren’t family or a close/best friend.
I am not interested in cryptocurrency, bitcoin, sales & marketing. I don’t want to know how many ways I can flip a house.
I could care less about social media. You won’t find me on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok; hell, I’m barely tolerating LinkedIn, and it’s lightweight entertainment on a good day.
I still listen to my favorite artists on CDs, others on vinyl. I have zero shame in pulling up YouTube to venture down memory lane.
Nope, I’m not addicted to Spotify, Apple Music, or any other app that gives me hundreds of thousands of artists at my beck and call.
I can write until my fingers bleed. I give birth to stories that have spent more than nine months in my brain. I am a healthcare worker leaning towards 20 years in the field.
I am not heterosexual. I do not lack love. I cannot stand what this world is becoming.
I am not in a relationship — don’t want to be “hooked up” with your boy or “set up” with your girl. Keep your friends where they are — they’ll have way too much to deal with as it pertains to who I am now.
I can say that openly without stuttering. I can say that and feel no shame. I know where my lane is and I stay in it.
I am me. Flawed. Fearful. Forgiven. The things I am not are exactly who I am.
90 shots fired? 90? 90? Are we sure? Could be a little more Could be a little less. Who’s counting? When it’s us, who’s counting?
You can’t be Black and young and afraid of authorities in America, it’s ammunition for their ammunition, and you will never win against their numbers.
The system was designed to hunt us like deer draw our slain bodies from the scene, and mount us above their mantels; prizes for their buddies to gawk at.
There are checks being cut for the officials who can sell the most bullshit in the darkest times and the 1% has scrambled to collect their due.
While we continue to drop like flies, letters lacking empathy are issued to grieving families and lawyers prepare themselves to seek the highest monetary amount possible as though money resurrects the dead.
What do you do when you’ve become numb to the constant pain that settles in your bones? It’s there, you know it’s there but now … it lingers like a reminder, one you claim as a task to get rid of, yet …
“After a car chase, Walker got out of his car and a foot chase took place, police said. Officers believed Walker was reaching towards his waist and they ‘felt that Mr. Walker had turned and was motioning and moving into a firing position,’ Mylett said.
Today, I will give her the space she needs to talk about Bree’s graduation invitation, her current need to want to get clean, and perhaps a future for us. Today, I will learn about this woman a bit more — the one who ripped my heart out almost a year ago but hasn’t left me alone since. There is a reason for all of this. There is always a reason for everything, yes? Today, I will be the listener she needs — the shoulder with everlasting comfort.
Tomorrow will bring whatever it will bring, and I will be ready for it, too
Cari devours her breakfast. She is adamant about consuming delicious, home-cooked meals. We almost never ate out. In the past, she would say, “Rena, whatever you make, I will eat it.” And she did. There had never been a meal of mine I cooked, she did not eat. She had been more than pleased to inflate my culinary ego, and I fell into every compliment as quickly as I could. This woman — the woman I loved and still love, the woman whose body I pressed my palms onto, massaging every ache away … she has returned. What will I do? What can I do?
“I still can’t believe Bree sent me an invitation to her graduation. I haven’t seen her in so long, Rena. God, how will I react when I see her?”
“I don’t know, Cari. The graduation is in, what? A little more than a week? How about you take it day by day, and when we get there, you react however your heart implores you to act.”
I look at her searching my eyes for more answers. The sunlight from one of my windows in the kitchen kisses her right cheek gently. She glows. Even though her beauty shines through undeniably, I recognize the pain in her eyes. The pain of a mother who will go above and beyond for her daughter. An addict reaching out to the heavens to get clean for the possibility of new love in the future. It has only been three days, and she’s stretching herself in all directions for her daughter.
“You’re right, Rena. I mean … You’ve always been right about most shit.”
“I’m not trying to be right, love. I’m just saying what I’m saying. There’s no need to agonize over what you will do when the day isn’t even here yet.”
I slide another cup of coffee in front of her. She grips the mug with a mighty force. I watch her as the hot liquid slips down her throat. We’re going to be okay with this. We are.
Her accent meets my ears in a way I am accustomed to it doing, but this morning, it’s different. I can sense the pain in her voice — the unknowingness that comes with reuniting with one’s daughter — especially for someone who is an addict yearning to become sober. Cari had already contacted one of the addiction and drug rehab centers in our area prior to mentioning it to me. She had an appointment with a licensed professional who would assess her upon their first meeting and go from there.
That she had taken these steps informs me she is serious — truly serious about reconnecting with Sabrina and getting sober. The old Cari would mention getting clean and then five days later, I’d find her strung out in an alley near Shoaf Blvd passed out at 3 in the morning. Cari’s phone rings just as soon as we’re done eating, and it’s Bree. My entire body tenses up because I recall the last real conversation they had and how much it tortured Cari. I listen intently.
The room is silent and each word she utters bounces off the walls and echoes back to us. She ends the call with tears in her eyes and says not to me, but to the air in front of us or around us — she was not looking at me.
“Ze maakt me zo van streek!”
I pause. I walk over to her slowly and gently pull her into my arms. I don’t have a clue what had been said — I don’t speak Dutch, but the tone … the tone showed anger? Sadness? Both?
“She makes me so angry, Rena. So angry. But how? How can she make me so angry and I still love her so much?”
Not being a mother myself, I am perplexed. I do not feel qualified to answer this question. I continue to hold her. I continue to let her vent and cry. I say what I am thinking.
“Please tell me you have not been uninvited to the graduation.”
“No … Worse. She doesn’t want you there.”
We stood in silence. Teardrops from her big, bold, and dark eyes fell onto my hands. I danced in a circle as I held her close to me. Our breaths pushed from our chests and forced us to stay in sync with one another. How will we deal with this? I don’t yet know, but what I know is this … we have a chance at a new beginning, and daughter or not, I will stand guard against Sabrina if I have to. I won’t watch her break her mother’s heart for a second time.
I just realized I had not shared the first two parts with you all. I hope this will help you get caught up here. Part I and Part II are above. Peace and blessings.
I follow her on Medium as well as LinkedIn. I do so because her voice is a powerful one, and she advocates for self-love, self-care, anti-racism, and anti-ableism, among some other important causes near and dear to me.
I am not big on listening to podcasts or watching a large number of TED Talk videos, but I do enjoy her videos and her memoirist-like essays that have been featured all over the internet.
Baby Tre and my dad, “Big Mike.” From the family archives.
A lone, baby girl — your first, sheltered in your embrace. You loved her. You love her. Old photos are passed down through the hands of a younger baby girl. You love her, too.
How have our memories been floating around the family tree making their way through our bloodline?
I look at this photo, it moves me. I am centered and sure of myself and happy. I knew I was safe in one of my favorite places — my father’s arms.
Does your youngest know this, too? If only we could rewind time but why would we? What would that accomplish?
There is an overaged pain that sneaks up on me and reminds me of better days but life isn’t too keen on rekindling old flames.
I have lost my fire.
But I look at this lone, baby girl and I remember being loved. I remember using your arm as my personal swing.
I remember learning how to swim and being tickled until my toes cramped from nonstop laughter.
I remember you. I remember you.
And I count it as a blessing there are still memories to recall of happier days when I was a lone, baby girl leaning into safe arms learning how to love.
Father’s Day is fast approaching in the US, and I still can’t say some of the things I wish to say to my father without choking up but I can always tell him, “I love you,” because I do. And I always will. If you’re a father, may someone spill a little love down on you this coming weekend. Peace and blessings.
A Cornered Gurl 
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