I’m told he died at age 58.
I think about how my mother is about to be 56 and how estranged our relationship is. How I’ve blamed her when she herself was a traumatized child having children.
I wonder at age 33 when I will die. Age 58 is only 25 years away; realizing that gives me tears, thinking about how much time I may have ahead.
But my God has already promised to give me more days; better days than the former.
Still, I wonder.
I realize now my mother did choose to have me with a married man; it was consensual sex. She gave him a chance to be in my life and he chose not to.
Even when I turned 16 years old in foster care, I had my social worker look for him. He fake-acted like he wanted me for a moment only to disappear again.
Or the time Lesha and I ran into him in Berkeley shooting dice. He asked me about my wardrobe because I was wearing basketball shorts and said they were too short.
But why don’t he know I’m in foster care and nobody is buying me clothes?
Instead of worrying about my shorts, what about my well-being?
I remember you told me he was going to come right back.
And again; he never came back.
I remember Lesha saying, “I knew that was your dad; y’all both got the same bottom lip.”
My big bottom lip; his trait. A lifelong reminder that I’m his.
I’ve been teased about it my whole life, especially in childhood. It wasn’t until my adult life; really the exotic entertainment industry; that I began to value my juicy big bottom lip that hangs like ripe fruit ready to be plucked from a tree.
He had a big black mole on his big bottom lip.
Growing up I always thought; at least I got the big lip and not the big mole too, because I was bullied enough as a youth.
These feelings don’t hurt, but they’re keeping me up.
This new pain rising with his death was so deep it woke me from my sleep; grief has a way of awakening wounds time never truly healed. The unprocessed pain sat buried in my spirit until it rose just as the clock sprang forward; a new season marking the close of one chapter and the beginning of another. It’s now 4:30. Granted time changed and I’ve lost an hour; it’s really 3:30.
Maybe I didn’t just lose an hour. Maybe I didn’t just lose time.
Maybe I lost something else.
In a lot of my relationships I often miss out on closure.
God, I pray that you be the closure for me in all things. Even if I don’t get it at this funeral; even if I show up like a reporter with my questions ready to interview, especially his mother. Perhaps I’m looking for a different perspective.
But whether the narrative is different or still the same as my memories and as my mother’s; God give me closure.
The kind only you can give.
Because just when we think time is endless; someone dies, reminding us we are all on borrowed time.
The clock is ticking.
And how are you spending your time?
I am avoidant-attached most days. Hard to reach; yet a deep soul.
Almost like an ocean.
At first it appears shallow, but the further you swim the deeper it becomes.
That’s me.
It may look like nothing happened to me on the outside, but the further you swim into my soul you will find the depths go deeper than the depths of the Pacific Ocean.
I find myself playing “Please Don’t Pass Me By” by Fred Hammond.
Like the song, I’m reaching out to Jesus.
You know what else is interesting?
On a day when time springs forward; when seasons change; I find myself going backwards.
Going back into Egypt.
Into a life God delivered me from.
What a day.
When I tell you I can’t make this up.
My life may seem like a movie to some; entertainment for others.
But it’s a testimony.
I’m walking through it in real time; just trying to push through the day.
And it seems there is always something; especially right before vacation.
I find myself wondering:
God, will I ever get to breathe?
Or will you forever be breathing for me?
Not just through me;
but breathing for me.