Silhouettes

Sleeping nights are awaken by silhouettes of her. I see her standing before the picture window. Her hands pasted to the glass, longing for what is far into the distance. I wonder if she ever saw me longing for her. I am not sure if the silhouettes of her are dreams or memories. Sometimes there’s a melancholy chant echoing as she robotically irons at the ironing board. Her dress swaying harmonically with the melody. Other times, she’s tucked into the quiet corner sipping her hot coffee. Those night I can smell the aroma of the strong coffee beans.

No one ever told me her story. I only had these visions to connect me to her. For eighteen years I didn’t even know her first name. Staring into reflections of myself I tried to find the parts of her she gave me unselfishly. But I would only see the selfish reasons she gave me away. These perceptions plagued me for much of my teen years. Once I aged out of the system, they handed me papers declaring my independence from the State. Somehow, I had created in my head these documents would free me in more ways than one. But it became noticeably clear that life was only to disappoint me. One paragraph, six sentences and sixty-six words. Her story, my story, her reasons, and seventeen years was narrated in that one paragraph. My eyes raced through the forms. Three words resounded in my head. African American, male, schizophrenia. Those three words read ineligible to be loved by a biological family and an adopted one.

The nights are cold, and the days are lonely. But I chose my only option - homelessness. I was sitting prey in a pond of predators at the male group home. The social worker had to know that. I wasn’t his first releasee. From the moment I walked through the door, the residents there looked at me like fresh meat, including the home keeper. I honestly feel safer out here – no boundaries, no walls. I’m invisible to the passersby. No one sees me unless fear or pity tells them to do so. I have to keep moving through the day, mostly hunting for a new spot to sleep at night. The night, though it can be unpredictable and justly daunting, it’s the happiest time for me. Every night when I close my eyes, I play the lottery with my dreams. The chance that I might see her, even its her shadow or hear her song, is awaited an anticipation.

Last night I saw her again. This time her song called me to come to her. I awoke with the intent on finding her, seeing her, knowing her. Searching through my release papers, her last known address read ‘Greenville Oaks Behavior Home’. For months this had been a fear of mine. If she seen me, would she know me? Would she sing that tune that lulls me to sleep most nights? Would she be wearing that airy dress? Would she explain to me why I wasn’t enough? Every determined step I took, making my way to her, begged for strength. But at the same time, I imagine she will be just as excited to see me. Maybe I could show her the life we should have had together. I truck through the crowds. Faces that I would stare into to determine their response to me are blurred.

I managed to keep my mind preoccupied by counting my steps. I lost count after step 25,853. Placing my foot on the steps leading to the front door, a jolt of a resistance ran through my body. The building was so massive. And for the first time since the beginning of my journey, my hopelessness returned. What if she wasn’t there? Where would I go to search for her next? Like the large office doors, my was heart heavy. Each heartbeat pulsated, drumming into my ears, drowning out the noise that surrounded me. Approaching the nurses’ desk, I opened my mouth, but my breathes choked my vocal cords. I wash the sweat from my hands, control my breathing and attempt to speak once again. Her name gets caught on the edge of my tongue. It was the first time I had spoken it aloud. The nurse smiles restoring my lost hope as she types in her name.

“She’s my mother.” I volunteer that declaration. “She hasn’t seen me in eighteen years.” Her smile turns into sobering glare. She asked me to follow her. I pushed out a deep breath of sigh and relief. I managed to control the six-year-old boy in me, that needed her to save him from the brutal hand of a resident staff member. But the nine-year-old that was handled indecently out of his control, gathered himself into the pockets of my eyes. Before reaching our destination, I excused myself to the bathroom. Staring in the mirror, once again, I saw everything unwanted. My dingy clothes, my unkept facial hair, my tiresome eyes, my loathsome life. Washing my face in the sink, I groomed myself to the best of my ability. Opening the bathroom door, I regain my forged composure.

There is a man standing next to the nurse. Business suit, shiny shoes, perfectly trimmed hair. His professional stance appears less than thrilled about my destitute attire. They are in discussion when their eyes find me standing in threshold of the men’s room. Reluctant, I approach. He introduces himself to me and tells me his title – none of which I heard. Was he sent to tell me she didn’t care to see me? Was he there to escort me out? He extends his hand, “Sorry for the inconvenience.” My mind races to gather his spoken words. What inconvenience he was speaking of. Looking at the nurse, it quickly became clear.

Reading these words, Alyssa fingers combed through the remaining pages of the little black book. This book once held by her father. The father she never knew, lived briefly in her. Though she wanted more, she understood why his story ended there. These words he had wrote over thirty years ago, explained why he could never see her. She found more value in this tattered book than the $20,000 check the attorney handed her. Alyssa searched each word, finding herself more connected to this man that had gave her life, but struggled with his own existence. Floating off the pages, his words form a silhouette of him. She envisions a much-needed conversation, discovering forgiveness.