These Pieces

You jumped.

Eyes open. Heart willing. Ready.

Then you crashed.

And felt. For the first time. The confusion, awareness, doubt, disappointment, sadness, and fear. It crushed you, but this time you let it. And with it came clarity.

This is how you move on and let go. It doesn't have to feel good, it just has to feel.

"It's time to get back on the horse." you heard the voice say. The same voice that said, "I see you." It hasn't known you long, but it knows you well. And you believe it because it does.

See you.

And so, you stand where you are. With feelings unresolved, but not unconquerable.

Eyes open. Heart willing. Still ready.

And you jump.

"Arrange whatever pieces come your way."
Virginia Woolf

Dear Dee,

It's been six years since we last saw your face.

We're thirtysomethings now. Each of us older than you lived to be. We're happy. We're married and single. We've gone natural, we eat healthier, we excercise. Some of us have moved away. Some of us have moved back home. We have new jobs or more responsibility. We travel. We've settled down. We take calculated risks. We still look like those girls who hung out on the yard but, save for having more time with you, we wouldn't trade places with them. We're still playful, just wiser.

Our years are passing faster than we'd like. Our hair is turning gray. The babies you knew are now big kids, and there are additions that you never got to meet.

We can still party with the best of them. We laugh, we dance, we sing. When Sorors start to stroll, we jump in the line. Staying out all night is still fun, but it now happens once or twice a year instead of once or twice a week. We don't recover like we used to, and we're okay with that.

It feels different this year, Dee. Maybe it's because it falls on a Tuesday for the first time since That Tuesday that changed our lives; or maybe it's because the bond you had with each of us ensures that your presence will never fade.

We miss you.

All our love.

Have a Little Faith in Me, Says She

"One cannot spend forever sitting and solving the mysteries of one's history." ~ Lemony Snicket
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There was a moment that day when the shaking hands were gripping the sink, the heart was pounding and the breathing was labored; that the wide open eyes were forced to meet themselves in the mirror.

For the first time in 66 days. 

me: "Who are you?"
her: "I was wondering the same thing."
me: "A year ago today I landed in my new life. A year later I'm back at the old one?"
her: "With a whole lot of stuff in between."
me: "Epic understatement."
her: "You haven't unpacked, but it doesn't make it any less true."
me: "I can still smell there in those clothes. I can hear it and see it. I can still feel what I felt. I need all of that to leave my memory first."
her: "You wait on that, okay?"
me: "I can't breathe."
her: "You're breathing."
me: "How?"
her: "You just are."
me: "Maybe I'll quit."
her: "Who says you have a choice? A lot of people see your strength."
me: "F*ck them. They see what they want to see."
her: "Or what you can't."
me: "I hate you."
her: "You are me."
me: "I just need to fast forward 5 years so I don't have to live in this."
her: "Welcome to reality where that isn't an option."
me: "It stings."
her: "Like a million bees sometimes... I feel it too."
me: "I can feel it pressing on the top of my head, driving me into the ground. It makes my knees numb."
her: "Change your stance."
me: "Sometimes I don't even know where I am."
her: "Well, right now you're in your bathroom. In your house. Just upstairs from the desk where you work the job that you found 48 hours after you lost the one you kind of loved. And right outside is the car you can still pay for that takes you to the studio where you can dance and to the store where you can afford to buy the food you like."
me: "Blessings."
her: "In the midst of this storm."
me: "Touche."
her: "Checkmate."
me: "I feel like I failed it."
her: "You fought the hell out of it."
me: "I don't know where to begin to find myself again."
her: "You don't have to. Take the gloves off. Be still. Work. Pray. Listen. I'll be here to welcome you back when you're ready. Have a little faith."
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"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am." ~ Sylvia Plath

Day 62: It Was a Tuesday.

"He killed her."

When time stands still,

You can't hear.
Because the words you just heard are too big to let any other sound in.

You can't see.
Because light is suddenly too bright, and causes everything to fragment and pixilate.

You can't speak.
Because when your heart shatters, all the pieces land in your throat.

When time moves again,

You find yourself sitting in a chair in the middle of a hallway, your body folded in half, arms wrapped around the back of your knees, rocking back and forth. And a refrain of "in, out" plays in your head as your body reminds itself to breathe.

You think of the last conversation, of what she'd shared with you only two days before, how she'd called and insisted that you get dressed and come out, how she'd made everyone dance, how tightly she'd hugged you.

The story plays in your head and you tremble at the thought of how scared she had to have been. And how brave.

You walk, in a desparate attempt to keep reality from catching you. You walk as you talk to friends, each of you repeating a story over and over again. A group of words that don't belong together. A story that will never make sense. 

Five years later,

The feelings live just beneath the surface.

You don't take time or people for granted.

You can still feel the cling of arms that knew they were hugging you for the last time.

You can still hear her voice and how she used to fuss at all of you for not keeping up with each other. And it makes you grin.

You remember how you sat in a courtroom staring at the back of his head without blinking, the ringing in your ears as you listened to the guilty verdict being read, and the feeling of despair as you turned your head towards the courtroom door and stared until your heart realized she wasn't going to walk in.

You have learned that time won't heal the hole in your heart.

Her home and cell numbers are still in your phone. You can never again call them, nor is deleting them an option.

You still wish you had turned around that night and told her you loved her.

You remember that day five years ago when you answered your phone and heard your Soror, her best friend, say,

"He killed her."

It was a Tuesday.

Day 54: The Cycle

I wish I was home.

I'm grateful to be here.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Day 52: HEARD. Vol. 3

The people quoted below have two things in common, they're all adults and they're all people I've come in contact with over the past several months. With the exception of one title, their identities were not recorded and will not be revealed.

There are times in this whirlwind adventure when the dust settles.

It was during those times that I listened.

This is what I heard.

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"I love daydrinking."

"It was like someone transported us to London, England on the most boring day of the year."

"Q-R-S. I know my alphabet. You can't confuse me."

"Toaster ovens are like, the best thing ever."

"How do you spell impactful?"
"I-m-p-a-c-t-f-u-l. But it's not really a word."
"Impactful? It's not?"
"Nope."
"How about thrilling?"

Me: "Will you write my check please?"
My Boss: "Sure. Your last name is Shaw, right?"

"Those dresses look like cheap witches at Burning Man, I got my costume at Rite Aid."

"We made out and I was so excited because it was just what I wanted!"

"And I was like, "Hey!" 'cause I'm like, you know, friendly."

"When you say cash only does that mean I can only pay with cash?"

"Pork is a dessert meat."

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Kilah: "I may not understand the people in my new reality, but I am grateful for them. And thoroughly amused."

Day 50: Daughter of a Man.

Though I am his daughter, I am not a Daddy's Girl.

My sister and I were raised by our Mom. She loved, taught, sang, laughed, chauffered, fed, hugged, worried, rejoiced, disciplined, bought, made... She parented.

And though I am sure my Father caused her endless frustration, she did not allow his daughters to hate him.

"You shouldn't speak to your Dad that way. He loves you."
"Do you love him?"
"Yes. Because he helped me make you."

As adults, my sister and I made the decision to have a relationship with him. We have learned to enjoy the time we have with him inspite of his sporadic presence during our childhood. He is an intelligent quirky man. He was a French professor for over 30 years, he ran a bartending school and owned a cleaning service. He was not one to show much emotion, but was generous with his praise. He is an excellent cook, an avid vegetable gardener, and, in his retirement, he has mastered the game of pool.

Our infrequent childhood conversations and visits with him were filled with the following mantras:

Him: "Who are the prettiest girls in the world?"
Us: "Kilah and Nza."
Him: "That's right!"

Us: "We won..., made..., achieved.... etc...."
Him: "That's great Kilah Wilah/Nza Pinza. Makes my toes tingle!"

I carry his dark skin, his wiry hair, his slanted handwriting, a few of his mannerisms and his mother's maiden name.

It was with him that I ate my first (and last) raw egg, learned to pickle cucumbers (a process which I have long since forgotten), got my first taste of the French language he adores, and learned my first reggae dance steps. He is frugal, into healthy lifestyles and cares little about material goods. He loves music, languages and African sculpture. In his own way, he also loves his daughters. He speaks deliberately and does not waiver once a decision has been made. He is not easily affected.

And now he is sick.

I learned of his diagnosis a few days before I left and last week's surgery two days before it occured. He waited until the last minute to tell me of his diagnosis and surgery on purpose.

Him: "I've just come in from the garden so I wanted to call and let you know that my surgery is the day after tomorrow."
Me: "Why didn't you tell me before? I might have been able to be there. And why are you in the garden this late at night?"
Him: "That's why I didn't tell you. And I had to get my collards in the ground."

He then went on to explain, in explicit detail, the information concerning his prognosis. In the months between his diagnosis and his surgery, he had researched, compared and questioned. He educated himself on every possible facet of his illness, treatment options, side effects and longevity.

As I listened to him detail everything from the growth pattern of his tumor to the place where the initial incision would be made, I realized that my Dad had armed himself with a plethora of information because he is scared. Part of his defense is knowing the twists and turns of his disease before he reaches them. He is not a fan of surprises.

His daughter shares that trait with him.

He is back home now, healing, resting and awaiting more tests and treatment. He is being well cared for. I spoke with him briefly and he explained his goal of eating more solid foods before he faded. For the first time my tall, lean, stoic Father sounded old.

And his daughter was not prepared.