"foot and hand on the gates."
we heard about it on meeting st.
It is Wednesday, May 25th, 2022, at 9:24 AM. Twenty-four hours haven’t passed since the atrocity in Uvalde, Texas. Twenty-four days haven’t passed since the bloodbath in Buffalo, New York. I see no need to revise, rewrite, or stretch this piece over a collection of days to weeks, and so on. I’m not writing this to submit to any outlet or to impress anyone. And quite honestly, this may be the first time I’ve written anything in response to an event of this scale, or any national, worldwide event at all, really. There was an irritation within my being this morning. From the time I woke up to after I finished showering. And even now, as I’m sitting here, writing this piece. When I heard about the news yesterday, I called a couple of my friends to see if they’d heard about it, as well. It seemed I was a bit late to the party, for lack of a better expression, because I was met with the following:
Yesterday, it rained.
My love, I woke up today not knowing how or what to feel. I remember, vividly, you telling me not to start my day off in conflict. Going on about how it deteriorates my face, or even more so, how it ruins my mind. And to that, I respond with a nod and an ‘I understand’ as I continue to perform the same ol’ tricks over and over again.
My Father's Resting Place.
On a cold night in March, my father and I talked for hours. It wasn’t often that we did this. Not to say we didn’t talk, but the subject matter wasn’t typical. I won’t state what was said explicitly, because that’s between him and me, and will stay between us for as long as we live probably. I will say it touched me. There were things I learned that night that I never knew before, but will always be with me going forward. I almost felt guilty in a way. There were a lot of times during our conversation that instead of listening to what he was saying, I was thinking to myself, “Should I know this?”. It all felt very foreign. I’m sure he felt the same way.
In My Past Life, I Was A Samurai.
We both had dreams of a distant journey. Her's were just a lot simpler than mine. I wasn't her neighbor, and I didn't live close by. She lived in an old farmhouse, out in the countryside. I had to bike twenty or thirty minutes, depending on my speed, to see her every day. Or every other day. I would go once in the morning before school, and once in the afternoon after the last bell rang. She didn't go to school. Instead, she stayed home and helped her mother around the house, while her brother and father worked on the farm. I had no business being out there, by myself. I wasn't aware of how dangerous the setting was. Montgomery, Alabama, 1964. An innocent, little black boy peddling all by himself, out in the country. Or at least, innocent to some. To the rest of the world, I had already been void of any light I carried with me into the world, once I could speak. Maybe, even much earlier than that.