Sinking

"When all around me is sinking sand, on Christ the Solid Rock I stand...." 

I look to my left and I'm stumbling 

I look to my right and I've been knocked back

I look down and I'm falling 

When I finally look up I see how far it is I've yet to go. 

The cycles of a hard life 

Up and down like a rollercoaster; 

Feeling unworthy to even feel 

What is there to grieve over 

When I'm still eating? 

Still healthy? 

Still clothed? 

Still fed? 

Still cared for? 

Still living? 

I battle it out every day 

With my own self 

Today, it is my worst enemy 

Last night I cried like a new born baby 

For what? 

I could not yet lay my finger on 

Not even to point at one particular reason 

There are many 

I don't often envision death: 

Understanding when hard times come 

When we are sinking through life 

Death, as an escape, is always a fleeting thought 

But, last night 

As I stared out of my window, 

Into the glow of the moon, 

Bouncing from waters 

Illuminating fountains 

That vision of loveliness 

Set to be taken in 

Its beauty absorbed 

Was not what I could see 

No, 

I saw a gun, 

Fully loaded 

Ready 

Pointed right at me

With the forefinger of my right hand 

Gripping the trigger 

It willfully pulled 

The rush of escape flooded all around me 

Fleeing in my last breath 

The tingle of freedom 

The moment of rescue from this 

This thing called life 

For a fraction of a minute 

I was okay with that 

A moment longer than fleeting 

Rested well with me 

But... 

Then a rush of pressure

Clamped down in my head 

The tears running freely down my cheeks

Alerted the sinuses within me 

They stood up & rebelled  

Tightening the ropes of revolt 

Against my nostrils 

Taking charge, and stealing away my air 

The pulse of my heart pounded 

An aching reminder 

Flowing through my system 

And into my eyes 

Reaching its destination 

At the center of my thoughts 

The throbbing wage of war 

Took full affect 

Convulsing through my limbs 

Taking over my body 

The song of battle stole my attention 

And I woke from my stupor of nothingness 

Suddenly reminded of my desire 

To catch hold of my breath 

I hurt.... 

But if death felt like this, 

I wanted no parts of it 

NO! 

I wanted to live! 

So, that's what I did

"When I need a shelter; when I need a friend, I go to The Rock." 

  photo provided by: www.stock.adobe.com

21 Years

The number twenty-one. It is how long some studies show in days, that it takes to practice anything enough for it to become habit. An instant change in the way people conduct their daily lives can be wrapped up in less than a full month. 

Twenty-one years. I was that old when my father stepped back into my life on a more permanent basis. At first I struggled with believing he would stick around; but he did. And although we had a number of bumps along the way, he never left me alone. 

 I was gifted twenty-one more years with him before he left this world and entered the next. In April,on the second day of the month, at 2:00a.m., in the year 2019, at exactly one-half and one month of my life; me and my father's chapter of togetherness ended. God gave me time to say good-bye. It wasn't easy, but it was a gift. I was spared from the outcome of the shock in a sudden death of a parent. Still, although I had time to prepare, there was no clue in my head of how I would go about burying him. I just didn't know how to do it, let alone want to. 

In the years my father and I had consistently spent together, I had grown so close to him. His raspy voice, coarse from years of smoking, was also crowned in what could have easily been mistaken for a lion's roar. Yet it held for me a sense of security. I knew I could count on being his "little girl" who he wanted to protect from even the most darkest of days. He had become my hero; someone I believe every woman should have in her first example of how to be loved. 

Finally, I had received what was a never-ending search over a lifetime of disappointment. Oh how I miss my daddy. I fight myself not to grieve, trying and continually failing to be a strong tower. The question has always been.... "How can I miss him SO much when he didn't raise me?" Am I even worthy of the pain in my heart; the same held by those whose fathers had departed this earth as well, but had also raised them since birth?

 I've recently learned that, along with the many other acronyms, short hands, or message slangs, the number twenty-one means "to quit," as in done, or over. Maybe God knew I would get all I had been searching for in my life prior to, inside the span of twenty-one years. It certainly changed me, my outlook on life, men, relationships and the constant search for approval from others who were not my father. 

 I've learned to appreciate the man beyond his faults. The man who gave me his heart and sensitivity. The man who, despite never being grand in stature, carried himself like a mountain. The man who was so intelligent, he was the first in his family to be accepted into college, and excel there during a time when segregation & the country's biggest blot called racism, thrived in & through our legal system. The man who was so brave, he left college to fight on the very front line in infantry, combating against those set to kill him, while saving the lives of his fellow men at arms along the way. The man whose brave acts during war earned him the honors of the Bronze Star & Purple Heart. The man who gave love so freely, the outer core of his heart had to be fortified to keep it from breaking. 

 I would say I'm better now. As a person; as a woman. Under the divine orchestration of God, into the stretch of twenty-one years, I have finally found what I had been looking for. Thank you Daddy.

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World (Pt. 2)

She reminisced on how her eyes lit up, and the sparkle of their brown embers would shine when the sun hit them at just the right angle, whenever she noticed him coming her way. Because of how often she walked with her head hanging low enough for her chin to almost graze her clavicle, no one seemed to notice them. They were the gift her father left behind that she held like a treasure. They were the window to her nightly visits to see him in the mirror while repeating her mantra. Jared noticed them too. He used to stare into them while they sat on the steps connecting the playground to the school building. It was like he could read into her deepest thoughts through them, and actually liked what he was reading. Sasha was tired. She had been on her feet all day restocking books since it was kindergarten learning day in the library’s lobby. While she loved to watch the children learn & to help them even more so by directing them to the books which suited their own personal interest, those little boogers did no more seem to know how to put away the literature that came flying off the shelves in their wake, than a dog could explain what exactly he wanted for dinner each night. Jared, whose mother had passed away while they were still in grade school, still came by to check on his father who had grown frail in the years since his wife’s car accident. For reasons no one could explain, he began to drift away from life, first with a significant weight loss, and then the inability to care for his day-to-day needs on his own. Jared had hired a home nurse to take care of him when he went off to college, and after he got his medical degree, he was able to help out as well. It was there where she saw him, climbing out of his black sedan, and headed toward his father’s apartment door. His gait was that of a man with confidence. He seemed to flow in slow motion from his car to his dad’s front door. It reminded her of the way former president Obama strolled through the streets while the camera man followed to gather every image of him before he hopped into an awaiting vehicle. He was in no rush, and she appreciated his strides of leisure. How she loved to watch him walk. “Jared?” She called out to his back as if she didn’t know that it was indeed him. “Is that you?” A smile spread across her face as joy set in and replaced the sulk of weariness that was once there. He turned to her with a dazzling smile across his face. He had recognized her voice, and was happy to see her. They came together and embraced. She filled her nostrils with the scent of his cologne. “Sasha, how have you been?” The baritone in his voice was soothing medicine to her ears. Jared pulled back only enough to hold her close and take in every fragment of her lovely features. There was an innocence still captivated in the embers of her eyes. He had never told her how much in love with them he was. When they were growing up, he would fantasize about swimming in their mesmerizing depths. She allowed him the pleasure only for a moment longer before she looked down, hiding them under the curtains of her lashes. A soft laugh escaped her lips as her face lit up with a smile. He couldn’t help but laugh along with her. The time they spent catching up in the yard between the buildings where they had grown up, seemed to fill in the spaces of her life that she never knew were empty. When she finally dawned the door to her apartment, the dinner Mama had made for her sat cold on the dining room table. The shower water was running, and the steam made slow dances in the glow of light under the door. Mama was getting ready for bed. Sasha krept past the bathroom door and made her way into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She collapsed onto the bed and sighed deeply, clutching her chest and staring up at the ceiling. Eventually her lids became heavy to heavy to hold open. They began to flutter closed and within minutes she was swept away into the blissful fantasies of her dreams. After their first meeting, she began to see Jared on a more regular basis, leaving many dinners on the kitchen table sitting cold. Sasha couldn’t remember a time in her life where she had laughed so deep, or felt so light. She had become the butterfly, creatures for whom she had always admired. They were mobile paintings in the sky. The finest sense of artistry simulated with every flap of their lovely wings. The only other man who had ever come close to warming her heart, and making her feel as though she could fly, was her father. Time had a tricky way of messing with her. It stood still, sped up and slowed down, all seemingly within the same moment. This was she and Jared’s relationship all wrapped into one. Mama had taken notice, and didn’t know whether to feel slighted by her only child, or happy that she had finally found a love all her own. She worried now about her place in Sasha’s life. Where would she fit in when the two built a world around themselves and closed everyone else out? It was bound to happen. The story was nothing new. She and her husband had enjoyed that kind space away from everyone when they built their own island of love. All they could see was each other. Just as sure as there is joy though, there is most definitely pain which follows. If only Sasha could be spared the type of pain Mama had known. She would sacrifice her life to protect her from it. Losing her father at a young age had taken such a toll on her mind and her heart. Now, she was able to spread her wings and finally embrace the possibilities of life’s best. All was going well for Sasha, and she was blissfully ignorant of the fact that she was being watched. The prying eyes had been following her and Jared’s every move for the last two months, waiting for the opportunity to get back at her for what she had done. For almost fifteen years she had lived with the torment caused by Sasha. Now was the time for her to show just how much pain she had caused. It was finally time for her to pay for breaking up her family. Maddy-Grace adjusted on her haunches, massaging her legs until the blood began to circulate through them again. The needle points prickling through her skin were becoming unbearable, but she did not want to move an inch for fear of being noticed. Her body inched deeper into the brush she used to camouflage herself. If they held onto each other for much longer, she was sure her cover would be blown, simply by the sheer disgust she felt every time Jared’s hand crept around Sash’s waste. That should have been her he was embracing. It was just another sign that Sasha was owed what was coming to her. After all, it was her father who had broken up the family she so cherished. Before he came along and stole her mother away, her world was perfect. All of those years ago, Maddy-Grace’s mom decided she was no longer happy being a wife to her father, and a mother to her only little girl. They had been the best of friends, and she never left her mother’s side. If her mother wanted to get her hair done, Maddy-Grace was sitting under the dryer next to hers. If she wanted to lunch with friends, Maddy-Grace had a seat at the table too. Even when her parents had date nights on the couch, they would invite their only child to sit between them under the blankets and watch a movie until they all dropped off to sleep. Those days were well behind her now. The last memory she had was her mother climbing into the passenger side of an old red truck, never looking back to see the single tear pouring down the cheek of her only child. She watched until the old truck disappeared with Sasha’s father sitting at the wheel. She didn’t understand it then, but now she knew for sure; their selfishness was what caused her whole life to go into a tailspin, and since neither was around any longer, it only left one person to pay the cost. Every time she looked into Sasha’s face, she saw that of her father’s, like he took the face which belonged to him, and left it with her as a parting gift. Pic provided by: favim.com

The Garden of Peace

The warmth of the moment cradles my heart

Sweet aromas caress my nostrils 

And tilt the corners of my lips up 

In the direction of where my hope lies 

Birds sing songs of joy 

For my ears to capture 

And my eyes are focused solely on the moment 

The past behind, the future ahead 

But none steal away right now 

 I am in the Garden of Peace 

Reverent waters dance in the glory of the sun’s light 

The air, once moving in a swift attempt to carry away nature 

Sits still, and is quiet; obediently falling in line with its surroundings 

Expectation is being born, without a cry & without pain 

Absent from the worry of a glimpse into the future 

 I am in the Garden of Peace 

Pillows of clouds offer refreshment 

From the weight of the past 

They wash out the memory 

And shadow the anticipated 

All for one purpose; and only one alone 

To make right now a moment 

 And that moment home 

 I am in the Garden of Peace 

Not needing a rescue, or place to hide 

Unafraid of what’s out there 

Protected on all sides

The Most Beautiful Girl In The World (Part 1)

picture provided by Pintrest.com

 “Tell me again Mama.”  The little girl looked into her mother’s eyes, hopeful that she would see a trace of what she longed for.  “Tell me what my daddy called me when he saw me.” Her little eyes sparkled in delight as she smiled, inhaled deeply, and slowly released her breath, turning away and closing her eyes to envision a face like hers, but masculine, with finely chiseled lines indicating the many hardships life attempted to throw his way, but he had championed.  Her daddy was her hero; Super Man come to life.

“Oh Baby Girl,” Mama said, as she stroked the long coarse tresses of her only daughter’s hair, with a wide-toothed brush, attempting to soften it enough to sit in a bun atop her head. She stalled for a while before speaking, taking a peek out of the living room window sitting to her left. Speaking of her husband had become burdensome.  One in which she hesitated to bear, by quickly changing the subject whenever his name was brought up in conversation. It was the only way she knew how to sustain some measure of strength in order that she could carry on with life.

A tear slowly made a trail down her cheek, puddling at the cusp of her smile. “Your daddy,” she started slowly, “used to say that you were the most beautiful girl in the world.  Then, he would whisp you into his arms and fly you through the air.  You were his gift sent straight from God.  An angel.” The crackle sound from hair making its staunch resistance against the brush pierced the silence that sat between them; both lost in the fantasy of reflection.

She looked forward to this part of the day.  When Mama would come home from work, drop the load of her bags on the kitchen table and, still dressed in her uniform, plop down on the sofa and pat the inside of her knees. This was the indication for Sasha to come and sit on the floor in front of her mama. This was their special time, just before she went to bed.  Even though the tired from cleaning homes all day was written into the sulk of her chest; Mama would still take time to take her hair down from all of the pretty bows and bands she had placed in the night before, massage her scalp with grease, and then invent a fresh style for her to wear the next day.

As she prepared for bed that night, Sasha adjusted the hair scarf around her new style so that it loosened enough to not cause her head to hurt. She looked at her silhouette in the foggy bathroom mirror, collecting more steam from the warmth of the water in the tub.

“You are the most beautiful girl in the world.” She repeated her nightly mantra to the blurred image staring back at her, making her voice deep in an attempt to mimic that of her father’s.

Then she smiled and walked in the direction of her room, which sat alongside her mother’s. By the time Sasha had finished her bath, Mama was already asleep, possibly in dream land judging from the sound of her soft snores.

The next day when Mama dropped her off at school, she still had the words of her nightly motivation playing in her ears. She needed the shield their encouragement provided.

“Oh, it must be such a pity to be so dang pretty.” The girls would tease as soon as she stepped into Mrs. Dandy’s second grade class. Sasha had loved school before the second grade.  She craved learning new things, and soaked knowledge in like a brand new sponge. She also enjoyed the social time with her friends.  One she couldn’t so readily do at home because Mama would not allow her outside of the apartment without her being there, which was most of the time.

The chant she was greeted with daily was one seeded in malice. What made it worse is that the leader in this group  of hecklers was who she once considered her best friend.  Her name was 

Maddy-Grace. Their father’s were best friends, and it was Maddy-Grace who was there with her on the day which changed her life forever. She thought Maddy-Grace would be by her side always; which made it hurt even worse to be sitting on the receiving end of her taunts and dirty stares.

As she pushed past the girls while they snatched and grabbed at the straps from the sleeves of her favorite dress, she was able to make it to her desk this time without skinning her knee in the crack on the tile at the front of the classroom.

Sasha sat in her assigned seat, in front of Jared, the boy from the complex next to her building, and also the one she and Maddy-Grace had mutual crushes on.  Of course, if left up to Sasha, Jared would never know how she felt about him.  On the other hand, everyone in homeroom knew that Maddy-Grace liked Jared.  She almost put her mark on him by making sure during recess, every time Jared would climb the jungle gym, and slide down the slide, she was there to greet him with a bashful smile, and a hello; waving her right hand so fast it almost looked as though it were vibrating independent of her arm. Sasha rolled her eyes at the thought.

The taunting went on endlessly throughout grade school, and into middle school.  She thought by the time they made it to high school, the girls would have matured enough to let up, but in the way they felt it their personal responsibility to  make her life miserable, it seemed as if each one was aging backwards. Sasha had come to ignore them.  She no longer made attempts to reconcile her and Maddy-Grace’s friendship. Besides, with each attempt she was disregarded like a used piece of trash.

By graduation, Sasha had determined that college was not for her.  She took a job working as a library assistant at the elementary school she used to attend, and had happily settled into life with her mother in their cozy little apartment.

After what happened to Daddy, Mama had never considered remarrying.  The shock and devastation of that day took away her desire to ever want to be with anyone else.  She was happy to have her baby girl still be there to support her even after she grew into adulthood. Still, she dreaded the day when Sasha may decide she’d had enough of living life attached to an old woman, and without a husband to call her own.

Sasha didn’t seem to mind keeping  her mother company throughout the years.  She genuinely enjoyed her mother.  They were best friends, the only one she’d had since Maddy-Grace. The nightly routine of having her mother do her hair, had turned into a welcomed practice of playing Gin or dominoes as she grew and learned how to style her own hair. Although she did miss those scalp massages. She attempted to do them on her own, but never got the relaxed sensation she experienced from Mama’s touch. Her efforts did serve to keep her mane thick, long and flowing well past her shoulders even in its coarse natural form.  How she’d worn her hair for her entire life was now the new societal trend, well accepted among the very people who used to make fun of her for having the nerve to dawn it.

Her life was just the way she wanted it to be. Uneventful, predictable, and consistent. That is until the day Jared walked back in. It had been many years since she last had the pleasure of being in his company.  Despite having witnessed the countless turmoil she endured from her former best friend, which made her ridicule all the more embarrassing, he embraced her, even leaving his group of friends to come and sit with her during recess so she wouldn’t be alone.  

The Corona Chronicles (The Injustice Martyrs)

Picture provided by: Scroll.in

As if running from the Corona Virus wasn't enough, this year has exposed the world to what Black people have been trying to scream out for over 400 years. WE ARE NOT SAFE IN OUR OWN SKIN.  Racism is as alive as it was during the Civil Rights Movement. In fact, its looking more like a modernized Jim Crow Era. Not even the white people who fight with us would choose to walk a mile in our shoes for fear of their own lives being put on the line.

For years we have watched ourselves be villainized  by an injustice system set up to watch us fail. Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and George Floyd were just the latest in the many martyrs to our system's injustice before them. And they question our anger?  They wonder why we have a problem continually burying our loved ones?

I'm so glad that the revolution IS being televised. Its about time that the world sees the position we have been put in as a people.  Justice for some, really equals justice for none because skin color is not a defining factor to being human.

Watching George Floyd cry out to the officer for mercy, and exclaim that he could not breathe while the officer continued to apply pressure to his neck almost broke me. Then I learned that not only was he strangled to death, but also beaten by three of the officers in the back of their police cruiser before being taken down with his face to the ground; helpless, while the fourth officer stood watch. I was devastated.  My mind kept going to this helpless man's face, pressed so deeply in the ground you could hardly see the whole of it.  Flashes of my own son's faces flipped in and out, replacing George Floyd's.  The horror and agony he must have felt in that moment.  All of this happened because the cashier inside the convenience store he had just come from, thought he'd paid for his merchandise with a fake twenty dollar bill.  Even with it being proven to be a real twenty in the end, was his life worth just twenty dollars?  Do police really view us as that cheap, that worthless of a people?

I wonder, because since I can remember, we have been brainwashed into believing we're not enough.  Its the reason why over the years we've done all we can to straighten our hair, lighten our skin, and have colorism amongst members of our own race. We've even adopted our "white speak" for when we are in the company of a lot of white people, so they don't feel uncomfortable while we're around.

As a little girl, I was told by one of the little white girls I used to play with that I was a Negro because I was a girl. The "nigger" label was reserved for my male counterparts, and I believed it back then.  I believed it!  Only because I was one of only two black children in my school, the other of whom was of a much lighter complexion, and came from a more well-to-do family, while I was the product of a broken home.  Mama and I had barely escaped my daddy's abuse (more so her than me).

In my neighborhood, where the "good schools" Mama worked so hard to keep me in, there was no representation of anything within myself that I could look to and be proud of. Instead, I was told how to feel about how God made me.  When I look back now as an adult, comfortable in the skin, and with the hair God gave me, I just wonder how I could have believed the definition of mere human beings who had nothing to do with the Divine Architect who crafted me and those like me, with His loving hands, and then said what He made was good.  How could any of us believe it?  But, I guess that's the power of brainwashing. 

We were bought at a price, taken from our home country, delivered over to a people who call us lazy, but paid to have us work to make money for them so they wouldn't have to.  Through time, as we gained our freedoms, we were told to, "go back to Africa;" since we had the legal right to live life freely, and earn money for ourselves.  Black Wall Street came about not long after emancipation, but was burned to the ground with lives lost to murderous hate-filled people who couldn't stand the fact that among us were enterprising, intellectually sound, thought provoking, investors who had grown from the binds of slavery to be millionaires with land of their own which they could pass down through the generations.

We enjoyed twenty years where the wealth of our people was allowed to grow.  They called it the Renaissance, and it is purposefully omitted from the lesson plans of teachers who could be showing black youth that their lives can be more than just impoverished, criminal, and confined; that their history covers more than just being somebody's slave.

Go back to Africa? For real? We were BORN here.  To be honest, if we're to go back to Africa, then those who say that need to pack their bags as well.  America is not your native land.  You stole it from those who believed the land belonged to everyone.  They wanted to share it with you, and you took it by force, killing their babies by bashing them against the stones, and taking their lives with violent force.

This morning I was led to the book of Esther in the Bible.  It reminded me of the destiny those filled with hate can expect.  Haman, who was second-in-command of the Persian Empire, enjoyed all the perks provided to his people. His power, prestige, and authority was flaunted over others as the expectation for reverence was impressed upon the people who they considered beneath them.  Mordecai, a member of the Jewish race, and Esther's relative, refused to give Haman the reverence he desired, because Mordecai's reverence belonged to God alone. This of course did not stroke Haman's self-centered ego, and he hated Mordecai for it. Not only that, he hated all of the Jews, and wanted to kill them.  His hate and desire to rid the world of the Jewish race so consumed him, he plotted and used the head of the country's government at the time (King Xerxes) to make plans to obliterate them.

I'm sure Haman expected great gain (whether financial or in power) from the enactment of his plans, but the day set aside for the Jews to be destroyed ended up being the day they were set free.  In considering himself better than others because of his race, Haman ended up being punished for his arrogant attitude.  All of his scheming against God's people had set him up against God, The Creator, who is Love & not hate. 

The scripture note reminded me that, "God will harshly judge those who are prejudiced or whose pride causes them to look down on others." What a burden it must be as well, to carry the load of hate. People who practice it always seem to be so angry. It has to be miserable to live in anger all of the time.

I pray that all my black brothers and sisters, all my brothers and sisters of other races who stand with us in this human justice fight will not lose hope.  I pray there be no more martyrs, as George Floyd's death has woken the sleeping beast of silence.  Carry on in the fight because there is so much left to do. Keep traction moving forward as we strive for the equal treatment we deserve under the law.  Emancipation was the break out, The Civil Rights Movement was the starting lap. Now we are in a full sprint. Don't lose hope, and please don't lose heart. Do all that is in your power to do legally, and within reason. 

As we fight against an injustice system set against us and practiced by those who are considered "bad apples" in a law enforcement group meant to protect and serve the citizens of America, not just themselves; I am reminded of the words of one of my favorite comedians. "Some groups just can't afford to have bad apples."- Chris Rock.  


Picture provided by: harpersbazaar.com

Death of A Friend; Death of A Friendship

Pictured provided by: quotes-friendship.com

Back in 2005, I met a young mother in my son's kindergarten class sitting with her daughter during orientation. She had the cutest, and sweetest little girl, and she and my son were one of the few black children in the room. They became fast friends, which made it only natural for us as their mothers to find time to hang out outside of school so they could play together. It was the start of a unique friendship.

Like me, she was a stay-at-home mom.  She had an older son in the second grade, her kindergartener (the girl who was the same age as my son), and a baby boy who was only two. I say we had a unique friendship because outside of us being stay-at-home moms and black, we didn't have much in common. She was younger, louder, livelier and much more feisty, and I was not necessarily quiet, but calmer and less prone to partying.  I admired her energy though, and how she never seemed to get tired, even with more kids than I had.   She and her husband were in super shape too.  Although my husband and I were still in our twenties, and in good relative shape, I remember we once attempted to race them to prove that we still had it, and got so left in their dust, we never tried it again.

We really should have known better. He was a professional trainer, who would eventually own his own gym, and she was an aerobics instructor who could dance like I wish I still could, but didn't have the nerve or speed.

There was only one car in their family at the time, so I used to go to her house and pick her up. She would call me and tell me she either wanted to come over and visit with me, or needed to grocery shop for her family.  I couldn't remember "hanging out" with someone as much as I did her since high school.  At times, it even felt to me that we had stepped back into high school. I took for granted the fact that she simply liked to keep company with me, and used to complain to my husband about her coming over too much.

The first time she rode in the car with me she felt comfortable enough to break wind. We laughed, and I played it off like I wasn't offended and told her it was ok, because we all do it.  It was the truth, but I couldn't believe her boldness.  Deep down, I guess I wish I had the same nonchalant boldness, but nothing in me would allow for that type of unabashed openness to being yourself no matter who was watching when I was that young.

From day one, she came by to visit on an almost daily basis.  We'd let the kids play while we watched T. V., talked about what we were cooking for dinner that night, or our husbands and how we were with them before we got married. She had been with her husband since they were in high school, so although we were a few years older than they were, they had a much longer history together.

Some of the stories she shared about her past did more than intrigue me. I actually wanted to TRY the experiences for myself. When she told me that she and her husband had done ecstasy together, that very night, I went to my husband and asked how he'd feel about trying it with me.  Her life made me feel as if mine was so cookie cutter.  I lived to be who people expected, never having the nerve to step outside of the box and do the stupid things expected of young people. In a sense I envied her because I knew I wouldn't be brave enough to live freely as she did.  The ecstasy conversation never went past a brief inquiry.  There would just be no way either me nor my husband would have the gall.

I also admired the way she and her husband parented their children.  To be perfectly transparent, I thought the way she reared her children was one of the few things which made her mature. Neither of them tolerated disrespect, they were consistent with their expectations, they fed them healthy home cooked meals nightly, and knew how to let loose and spend time playing games too.

I would never have told her for fear of hurting her feelings, although I'm sure it reflected in my attitude sometimes, but I always thought that her husband was the mature one in their relationship.  To me, she seemed to be more a teenager trapped in a grown woman's body.  Maybe I was just too prudent at the time, because instead of judging her, now as I look back, I wish I had absorbed more of her youthful energy and had a little more fun.

By the time 2008 came around, my family and I had been preparing to move up to Washington state for a 2 year project my husband had been assigned to lead. My young and energetic friend and I hadn't spoken in months.  It was a misunderstanding, and as far as I can remember, it concerned things that would be considered so minor. When it was all said and done, I was retrieving my hot curlers she had borrowed months before, and she was asking for her Kirk Franklin CD back.  I don't think we even argued. We just stopped talking, and I can blame myself for that.  For some inexcusable reason, I thought myself to be too "mature" to continue putting up with her "ways.". Its crazy as I think about it now, and I regret it.

When we moved back to Texas in 2010 we ended up living in a whole new city than we were before, hardly paying visits to the old neighborhood.  And when 2013 came, I heard she had been killed in a car accident.  This was just six months after she had given birth to her fifth child. She was only just entering her 30s.  My heart sunk.  I never got the chance to say goodbye, and I was so stuck in my own ways, I refused to put forth the effort either.  What a shame.

I poured through her Facebook pictures, looking at her as she grew into more of a woman, and watching her children grow from grade school age to adolescence. Her daughter, the only girl born to the family at the time I knew her, had grown to look exactly like her mother.  I felt for the family. Here the father was trying to pick up life, raise five children, mourn the loss of his long time love all on his own.  I could see sadness in his eyes, even as he smiled for pictures while embracing his kids. The puncture would developing in my heart grew.  I should have been a better friend to her.

Now, the children we raised together in our little version of what I liked to call "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood," are all grown up.  Entering into the early adulthood long behind us. I miss her.  And when I want to see her again, and feel the energy she gave so freely, I sneak back to her Facebook page, and look at the younger version of her, still growing, alive and thriving; carrying on her mother's legacy with pride.

She did an excellent job mothering those kids.  I pray for them, that they not allow this troublesome life to beat them down in her absence, but make her proud by propelling themselves forward in the direction of their dreams.