Tag Archives: life

Two Black Suns

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In light of the weekend’s Micheal Dunn verdict in Florida, I feel the need to bring this post to the forefront again.

NY Daily News: NYPD Allegedly Assault Staten Island Family – Killed Parakeet

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns in this country, this United States of America.

My late-husband and I together did our best to navigate them through the minefields.

In their Sesame Street days, they are taught – this is the land of opportunity. They learn, that the color of your skin shouldn’t matter. And we said shouldn’t matter because even at that young age of theirs, neither of us as black parents could get past the ugly truth lodged in our throats and say that it ‘doesn’t matter’.

In their grade school days, they are taught – this land of the free. They learn that some of us have to work twice as hard most times to afford it. When in stores, they learn do not touch anything unless you have the money to buy it. We do not yet teach them that they are not being watched because someone might think they will break it, but because someone might think they will steal it, but they learn.

In middle and high school – they are taught this home of the brave. They learn as long as they are brave within the accepted boundaries, and those boundaries are fluid. They learn that the police officer who was their friend in day care and grade school, may not be so now that their voices have dropped and their awareness of the world at large has risen. They learn this even when sometimes that officer is an officer of color.

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns in this country, this United States of America.

Our parents and my generation learn for the all the Martin Luther Kings and Malcom X’s there were the Emmitt Tills. That for the Rosa Parks there were the Eleanor Bumpers, for the Jesse Jacksons there were the Michael Stewarts, Yusef Hawkins and right around the corner from where my parents used to live when my sons were still children, Anthony Baez.

And as my sons made their way to manhood they learn that there are too many Rodney Kings, Amadou Diallos, Patrick Dorismonds, Abner Louimas, James Byrds, Sean Bells and now Jordan Davis.

In between what they are taught in school they are taught manners and respect and pride and faith, yes because it is the right thing to do. But they learn it may also keep them alive.

Yes, we were strict. Yes, we had rules. They learn to think of others as well as of and for themselves. They are taught responsibility and, like all children/teens/young adults, begrudgingly learn it.

They eventually learn curfews are not because I did not trust them to go out into the world, but because I did not trust the world to give them back to us. With one son sometimes too nice for his own good and the other sometimes too hot-tempered for his, if they are in the house, I am not worrying at 1am, at 2am, at 3am. I am not worrying if this will be the night, the night that the nightmare comes true and we get the call. The call that is the nightmare of every parent that must raise black boys to black men.

The nightmare that became the unfortunate reality for Sabrina Fulton and Tracy Martin – because like Stewart, Hawkins, Baez, King, Diallo, Louima, Dorismond, Byrd, Bell and Davis we know there are far, far, far too many Trayvon Martins out there never heard about in the news.

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns in this country, this United States of America.

They were taught that red of our flag is for the valor in fighting for the right to live free; the white for the purity and innocence of our thought and purpose and the blue for the justice to protect those rights. Though as black men those inalienable rights wouldn’t be put to paper for them for another 100 years, and to some form of actuality for another 100 years hence. They learn it can also be the red of their blood on a baton, the bullet from a gun, the edge of a blade or a fist from the white-hot rage of someone having his or her worst day that encountered them having one of the worst of theirs and the blue of their body growing cold in the morgue from the result of that confrontation long before I get the call.

They learn that their All American names will get the door to open. Then they learn that their not so all American looks will sometimes have those same doors close in their faces.

They are taught that though it is certainly better than it has ever been, they learn that there is still quite some ways to go.

My suns are now adults, living their lives as men. My late-husband and I did the best we could with what we had. We got them through the minefield to black adulthood relatively unscathed. I no longer have nightmares of the call. I go to sleep at night trusting we will all safely see the morning unharmed. However, I am guessing, so did did Evelyn Lugo when chaos crashed through her door.

Things like this happen and a mother’s worry does crop up again on such occasions – after all…

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns living their lives as black men in this country, this United States of America.

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To Dream Or Not To Dream…

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You unexpectedly run your fingers gently along the side of my face and, knowing me well, before I can think to question you about it, you place your lips upon mine and we kiss.

Gently.
Passionately.
Tenderly.
Hungrily.

When we slowly pull away we are breathless and I open my eyes to the dark emptiness of my room.

And realize it was only a dream.

Now, I lay awake undecided.

Am I more afraid that I won’t have that dream again…

…Or that I will.

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There is (or was depending on when you read this) a Facebook meme asking users to list 10 books that have stayed with them in some way. The books did not have to mean anything to anyone but the user.

Here is my list in the order of which they popped into my head:

1. The Kushiel Legacy (Series) – Jacqueline Carey
2. Harry Potter (Series) – J.K. Rowling
3. Spenser (Series) – Robert B. Parker
4. X-Men (The Phoenix Saga) – Chris Claremont
5. The Divine Comedy (The Inferno, The Purgatorio, and The Paradiso) – Dante Alighieri
6. Othello / Romeo & Juliet / Macbeth / Hamlet – William Shakespeare
7. Teacup Full of Roses – Sharon Bell Mathis
8. If Beale Street Could Talk / The Fire Next Time / Go Tell It On The Mountain – James Baldwin
9. Incarnations of Immortality (Series) – Piers Anthony
10. Holy Bible (King James Version)

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#1 (The Kushiel Legacy (Series) – Jacqueline Carey) and #9 (Incarnations of Immortality (Series) – Piers Anthony) on this list I have written about in an earlier blog post and you can read why I love them here. Below I give little summaries not of the books themselves (I trust that you know how to Google or Wiki it if interested 😉 ), but why they remain with me.

Harry Potter (Series) – J.K. Rowling

As a reader of the books and watcher of the movies I adore this in its entirety. Not having children of the target age initially designed for I didn’t come into the Potter world until I saw the first movie “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone”. As a sucker for things magic, warlock, wizard, witches et cetera, I had to read the book that created such a delightful movie. Only then did I learn a) it was a children’s book and b) it was series. Still, by the time I finished reading the books published to that point Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, I was hooked. Author J. K. Rowlings has invented such an amazing in-depth world that is and yet is not part of our own, while never forgetting that at its core it is still a young adult book. In most children/young adult literature series the characters stay relatively the same age for years.  J. K. Rowling penned theses character in as true sense of a bildungsroman possible given the fantasy. Reading/watching the characters develop over the years, I really did have a sense of watching the characters grow and come into their own. The entire series was phenomenal storytelling that captivated me and opened up a genre of books (young adult) I never would have considered reading otherwise.

The following quote has been attributed to actor Alan Rickman who portrayed the Severus Snape character in the film version of the books:

When I’m 80 years old and sitting in my rocking chair, I’ll be reading Harry Potter. And my family will say to me, “After all this time?” And I will say, “Always”

That sums up my love for the books and their movies in its entirety.

Spenser (Series) – Robert B. Parker

I admit it, were it not for television, I likely still would have never heard of Robert B. Parker. Luckily for me, the television series “Spenser for Hire” happened.  I fell in love with the characters; none of whom were perfect (though the leads were perfectly cast in the show).  I found out in the third (and final) season that they were based on books and after reading “Ceremony” it was a done deal.  Robert B. Parker’s writing is witty, intense, mellow and detailed with nuance as he slides you into his Boston.   Both the requisite tough and tender, Spenser (with an “S” like the poet), a former boxer, former Boston cop, now private investigator is a well-read, often quoting classic poetry, yet one smartass S.O.B. and an excellent cook. He has his own very strong sense of morals and what happens when doing what’s right clashes with doing what’s right– as  it often happened. It is both the strength and the albatross of what makes his friendships and relationships work.

X-Men (The Phoenix Saga) – Chris Claremont

Yes, X-Men as in the Marvel comics and movies, The Uncanny X-Men comic books to be specific. Yes, Storm – a character who was strong, female, and stop the presses, Black – opened the door introducing me to X-Men and the Marvelverse, however, it was Chris Claremont’s writing that kept me in the building. From the Phoenix’s fiery ascension (ironically from the waters of New York City’s Jamaica Bay), to its death, The Phoenix Saga took a little over three years to tell in its entirety and I was there for every step of it. The very human dynamics of the mutant x-men working with their powers, and in the case of Phoenix powers that eventually prove to be far beyond her ability to control with dire consequences, was not something I expected in a comic. The world at large was just coming into the concept of a graphic novel, so this level of storytelling for a comic book was unheard of.  Yes, they were humans with extraordinary powers, but they were human first and that is what called out to me.

The Divine Comedy (The Inferno, The Purgatorio, and The Paradiso) – Dante Alighieri

Finally reading this as an adult away from school, I needed two detailed abridged versions along with the original to fully appreciate the scope of this masterpiece.  Yes, on the literal surface, The Divine Comedy portrays Dante’s adventures in his imaginative realms of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, which is intriguing enough. However, these adventures or so much more than what is on the surface. Other than the Holy Bible, it was the first book I read that dealt with the demands Christianity makes on invariably fallible human souls. Though told through the character’s view this is not just one man’s struggle, but the struggle of all who strive for morality and find unity with God as we try to travel the right road.

Othello / Romeo & Juliet / Macbeth / Hamlet – William Shakespeare

Who is better at delving into what makes man, and woman, tick and then deliver it to us in finer verbiage than Willie Shakes? No one.  While his comedies show display our foibles with rapier sharp wit, it is his tragedies that really cut to the human heart of us. These four in particular being the prime examples of his craft.

Teacup Full of Roses – Sharon Bell Mathis

Though technically a young adult novel, I was ten when I read “Teacup Full of Roses” at the suggestion of my teacher.  I fell in love with the book because it was the first book I read clearly where the characters were contemporary (1970s), from the city and above all the characters were Black.  I could easily relate to the hopes, dreams, nightmares and failures of these people because they lived in my world. There is much conversation on how the media does not provide an accurate portrayal/accounting of people of color compared to real life, and this is at the adult level. Imagine how much more this is so at the child level.  Until then the only black character I knew in books was Jim in Huckleberry Finn.   Some will never understand how amazing and important this is to a child of color, but it is.

If Beale Street Could Talk / The Fire Next Time / Go Tell It On The Mountain – James Baldwin

Ah Baldwin, in turns made me yearn, made me made angry, made me resolute. Not yet fully aware of the world at large, I did not know the importance of his writing at the time. I just knew this was our lives being told true as I knew them to be. I was exposed to passion in black love, anger and Christianity in a way that was not toned down and pretty. Teacup impressed the ten-year old me, but Baldwin blew the teenaged me out of the water.

Holy Bible (King James Version)

Ah the Bible. I worried as Pharaoh refused to let the Israelites go. I understood the father’s joy when his prodigal son returned home; Abraham’s torment as he led Isaac up the mount, as he resolutely obeyed God’s word and Mary’s pain as she cried for her child on the cross.  And Song of Solomon / Song of Songs – well, that’s its own love.  For me The Word was never about  my potential destination to heaven or hell. It never really about His word per se, the analogies/parables between man and deity took second place to the stories of the people themselves and how we relate to and with Him.

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Dissecting this list I realize the connection between all of them is that, it is always about the people in them and their stories. Whether fictional/biographical/auto-biographical – it is how the protagonists / antagonists relate to themselves, to the immediate people who are a part of their daily lives and how they relate to the world the world at large. Good or ill, it’s all about what makes them tick.  And how deeply can they pull me into it their world and make feel me it in mine.

What Is Proper? (For Kay Cee)

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I have a Facebook friend who recently loss her husband.  Like I did then, she feels all alone on her path of grieving. I wrote the below a few months after the loss of my husband. As others who walked the path before me reached out to me,  I share this now so she knows she’s not alone on her path either.

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What Is Proper? 
I look over these years of my life from childhood until now.

Intellectually, I know I’m just a brief dash of eternity. But in my heart, half of that “dash” was my entire life with him.

What is the proper form of grief? I’m being told how well I am doing, how strong I am. If I don’t look as though I’m going to huddle in a corner and sob my eyes out any second, is that sufficient token to gauge my passion? I sometimes feel as though, I was expected to immediately fall apart and because I have not, it’s as though all these years with him have been a farce. For every few sets of real flowers he gave me, he also gave at least one artificial one “because like me, they will still be here when everything else is gone.” But since no one is there at night when I’m falling asleep exhausted clutching those same flowers on the bed, is that form of sorrow any less worthy? So who was pulling the masquerade? Bill? I honestly thought the artificial flowers would be gone first.

What is the proper time of grief? My mother passed away years ago and I still deeply feel her loss, but there is no expectation of a potential replacement for her. I’m expected to carry on and someday find a replacement for the irreplaceable. But when is ‘someday’?

If a year from now some new form of happiness enters my life, am I in too much of a rush to dismiss what was by pursuing it? What if a year from now I find I still cannot take off my wedding ring, am I flat out holding on far too long?

Oh God, a year from now – another dash of eternity I can not comprehend when I’m trapped in pseudo time warps.

I hear a song on the radio and for a moment we’re dancing so close together. But then it’s over and I’m forced back into the reality that he’ll never dance with me again. Then I’m feeling even more the fool for once again letting myself get sucked into a happy memory when I know the end result of such reminiscence is pain. I know it won’t always be like that, but right now I feel like I am wading and wading along a shore of my own tears, trying to find an answer in the tide, but it’s on a crest just out of my reach. I’m so close, yet so far from the solace there.

“One day at a time” I’m told. Right now, I’m just trying to get through one minute at a time.

I’ll work on getting through a whole day later.

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I also offer this:

In Smiling Silence

And this:

Elderhood

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I was parsing out some advice to a friend a couple of days ago who then commented “Why do you always have just the right answer, Raivenne?”. Of course me, being me gave her a sarcastic and completely narcissistic, but humorous reply at the time, but it set me to thinking. It was not the first time I unintentionally found myself in the role of wizened advisor as of late and had a similar comment made regarding it.  It made me wonder were my advisors, when I have questions?

I lost one set of grandparents before I was born. I lost the other set by my mid-twenties. I have no siblings. Other than my sons, I am estranged from everyone I am related to by blood by mutual apathy. My family is the one  created from marriage and from those whose lives have intertwined with mine over the decades. Even so, my personal family is small and at this stage of my life, pretty much without elders.

Some things are irreplaceable. Recipes I never had a chance to learn, childhood pictures and family stories forever lost. Apologies that never had to chance to be given or perhaps received.

It started hitting home one day when a group of us peers were sitting around the dining room and realized we were now the ages of our parents, aunts, uncles et cetera when many of us met and become the tight-knit group we were. We are now the elders.  Back then, none of us in our early thirties to early forties lives, were ready to embrace that title. Now at fifty and one of the youngest of that core group, and having already lost a few of them -including my husband- there’s no denying it.

When my husband died, the few elders I had loved, trusted, would turn to for advice were no longer among us. Luckily among my peers in real life and one or two from the Internet a wellspring of information and inspiration was found and I happily get by and for the most part thrive on it.

Mine is an interesting sort of elder-hood at this moment. I have no grandchildren, no nieces or nephews. No immediate young family to look up me with their expectant eyes while I bake pies and look oh so wise over my bi-focal glasses. My late-husband and I somehow raised two very self-contained men who at this point in their lives are even less ready to see me as crone than I am. Most of my motherly advice, worldly wisdom -such as it’s not- goes to my younger peers. The twenties and thirties among my friends who are where I once stood 20 -30 years ago. And you know what?-that works for me.

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Slice of Life – Two Writing Teachers – Write, share, give: SOLS time

Scared of Me…

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Think about this for a moment: Yes, we all know what we look like smiling and laughing, there are pictures galore of such, especially in this modern age of cell phones capturing our lives in vivid pixelation. We see ourselves disappointed, sad, depressed and even crying because we lock ourselves away for a private moment in our bedrooms / bathrooms and a mirror shows us our hurt.  We may even see ourselves in various states of tumescence.

However, we almost never see ourselves truly scared or really angry or outright furious because we are generally facing that which has made us truly scared or really angry or outright furious and rarely is a camera there to capture the moment.  If you’re about to go postal do you think anyone would want to flash a camera directly in front of you? Don’t think so.  Yes, we can imagine what we may look like from what we’re told after the fact. However, when such strong emotions occur we are rarely in front of a mirror and by the time we reach one, we are no longer at the height of that emotion to really know.

Except I now know what that type of fury looks like for myself…

Today started as your normal Tuesday morning. I was up, my bed made; I was showered and dressed for work.  I made a quick call to a friend to confirm a detail on plans for later this week.  As usual between her and me it was not quite the quick call expected.

Our conversation meandered and somehow touched on an erstwhile family member I had not laid eyes on since 1991. Let me just say, point-blank, it was under very bad circumstances when we parted ways. If I never lay eyes on that person again, it is because even the deities know it would not be good thing, especially after this morning.

So I had her on speaker phone as I stood in the mirror applying make-up. I was looking at my eyes, giving them a final check before I close the eye shadow case, when she dropped the following what if on me:

“Yes, but he doesn’t know where you work. What if your boss called you into his office one day and he was sitting there a new employee?”

Only because I was looking dead into my own eyes at that exact moment did I see it. I felt my whole being react to the thought of the scenario proposed and in a split second went from apathetic to apoplectic before my very eyes.

My pupils dilated fully and something in them… around them… behind them…

Flashed.

…And scared the shit out of me.

I scared myself so badly that the eye shadow case slipped from my fingers as I took a step back.

The sound of the crash as today’s colors hit the floor and flung out in all directions, along with my friend wanting to know was that noise, snapped me back to reality.

There was so much strength, so much power, so much rage in that one glance of myself, I shudder now as I type this thinking of it.

What there was not, was absolution. None. Whatsoever.

But what frightened me the most of the experience was the fact that my reaction was from a mere hypothetical “what if…?”

How much worse would the reality be should the deities change their minds and let it occur?

I have actually seen the evil within me start to emerge.

And now I wish I could go back to when the only thing I could do was imagine it…

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Two Writing Teachers | Tuesday Slice of Life December 2, 2013

I’ts Never “Okay”, But…

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Most football fans have finally stopped cheering/grumbling/talking/ about the New York Jets win over the New England Patriots due to the enforcement of a new rule in the NFL that went against the Pats. However, an incident after the game may very well eclipse all the brouhaha over the controversial call.

Videos of a male Jets fan punching a female New England fan have gone viral over the past couple of days.  One of the videos of the altercation starts with the alleged attacker, wearing a Wayne Chrebet (No. 80) Jets jersey, is being pulled away from a fight in progress. It is not clear how the initial altercation began, but a woman, wearing a Patriots T-shirt in the videos, steps forward to confront the alleged attacker and tries to push him, before he responds with a punch to the left side of her head.

If you’re interested in more details of the event, you can Google it. This post is not about the above incident in and of itself, but about the adage that “it is NEVER okay for a man to hit a woman”.

First, let me preface all else I am about to say with the following: It is not acceptable for anyone to hit anyone. Regardless of gender, there should never be an acceptable time for someone to use violence to solve a problem. And please note that I said should. Unfortunately, we do not live in a white knight world and there are certainly exceptions to that rule.

As a mother of two sons (now adults),  I am well aware some women, safely cocooned in the belief that the man will always be considered at fault should he physically hurt her, will use that to their advantage and push, goad, provoke and/or physically attack a man.   Knowing such, I fully admit I could not teach my sons such a hard and fast absolute.

I’ll refer to men/women here because it is easier to use the hetero standard, but this applies regardless of orientation.  People have to realize not all women are defenseless and not all men are necessarily stronger than their partner. On the flip side, the physically smaller partner is not necessarily the weaker one, especially when there is any sort of weapon involved.

If the woman is yelling and screaming – let her.  You know what’s reasonable and what’s not.

If it’s starting to piss you off that you’re even thinking of doing something physical, it’s time for you to either a) leave for an hour or so to call down or b) leave temporarily and consider whether or not it is time to c) leave permanently.

However, if she’s coming at you with a cast iron skillet or a pot of hot cooked grits (some of you will get that reference), and you by that look in her eyes that tells you she means business  – what you both did so wrong that it got to that extreme point and what should be done to fix it, if it can be fixed – can be figured out later – you very much have the right to knock her on her ass, but ONLY ENOUGH FOR YOU TO GET TO SAFETY.

If your partner/significant other/spouse is beating the crap out of you, you should be able to defend yourself enough to get to safety, until the police arrive if necessary, regardless of gender.

When it comes to my sons, the only person allowed to even attempt to take them off this earth is the one who brought them into it, and I have told them as much.

Swinging this back around to the incident on Sunday…

The controversial call that that cost the Patriots the game/gave the Jets was likely the first spark to heated words between the fans.  I’m sure once all the investigation comes out; there likely were copious amount of beer involved on both sides further kindling an already contentious rivalry between both teams and their respective fans.  He (the alleged attacker) is just wrong.

  • Regardless of what kicked-off the initial altercation.
  • Regardless that she was yelling at him and even ran up and tried to push him.
  • Regardless that she was able to just shake it off.

She had no weapons and posed no physical threat to him as he was nearly twice her size.  Were this between two men, 1) this would not come up for discussion and 2) he would still be just as wrong.

As all parents tell their offspring at some point while raising them – which many seem to forget upon reaching adulthood:

KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF.

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Slice of Life Story Challenge

I’ve Been Here Before

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I ride the dusk
Streaking across the infinite horizon
Clouds tinted in lines rubicund and indigo guide me
Into the deep, into the dark, the eventide of my heart
I don’t fret, I’ve been here before

I know this darkness, know it well
When it consumed more than the rays of daylight
When it consumed my hopes and dreams
When it consumed me
And then regurgitated
An empty shell back into the world

But this? This dark is different
I don’t fret, I’ve been here before

This time I am the consumer,
I enter into this willingly, knowingly
That this blackness has an end
That this blackness is indeed finite
That there is an other side

I don’t fret, I’ve been here before
The erstwhile hollowness
Restocking itself to whole
Into the dawn, into the sunrise, the reemergence of my soul
Horizon tinted in lines tawny and cerulean guide me
I disembark as dawn streaks across the infinite horizon

My trip done, my voyage beginning
I don’t fret…

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting The Bar – The Beat Poets and their Poetry

I See Your True Colors Shining Through

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So last night  this happened…

Miss America 2014

Miss New York –YAY TO MY HOME STATE, TWO WINS IN A ROW!-,  Nina Davuluri, was crowned the winner of the 2014 Miss America Pageant.  The 24-year-old is the first contestant of Indian heritage to become Miss America.

And the racists go wild!

twitter_racists_2
 twitter_starnes_1The new Miss America 2014 barely had the first hair pin in to secure the crown on her head when the backlash started.

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Being that this is Twitter, and we all know what a rainbows and lollipop filled space that is, I am not in the surprised by the nasty vitriol the spewed by these lesser informed Americans.  As usual along with their hate, their ignorance is shown at an all time high.

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I’m willing to bet a good majority of these ignoramuses against Miss Davuluri being chosen to represent the nation, were also upset that Marc Anthony sang the national anthem at MLB’s All Star game this past July because he wasn’t an American either. And we know how well that turned out for them.

If you’re born here in the US or in a recognized US  territory you’re American. If you immigrate here and become a citizen, guess what? you’re American. And American melting pot has a hell of a lot more colors in it these days.  Like it, and apparently quite a few do not, Nina Davuluri is an American citizen and is fully worthy of wearing the crown.

It galls me to no end how immigrants of color “are welcomed” to have anything they want, but -to quote Guns’N’Roses- “you better not take it from me”.  Immigrants of color are an asset to the country until they cross that invisible line and achieve -read as “take”- something deemed should be an American -read as “white”- ideal. Then it’s a problem and one of the first thing out of the complainer’s mouth usually is “They’re not from here”. If they would take their respective feet out of their mouth and extrapolate on that theory a bit, they might remember neither are they and the majority of us living here.

And I am sure all those of Native-American heritage justifiably nod their heads in agreement every single time they read something like this.

I find it appalling and yet “same old/same old” that ones spewing the most hatred were mostly Caucasians and the one shocked at that very same hatred are mostly Caucasians. As a minority I live with this on the daily. It’s fucked up, but not in the least surprising. The new Miss America is of Indian descent – it is a huge step forward in diversity.  Unfortunately, all those in the Twitterverse who feel otherwise about her win sends us two steps back in maintaining that divisiveness.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Writing Backward – Old Man

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“Good bye old man.”

Hand still on the headstone; Delilah lifts her face to the light rain that has fallen intermittently all day. She has as umbrella, but does not want to use it. Well aware she will likely pay for this by catching one heck of a cold as she is slowly soaked, she does not care right now. It feels oddly soothing. The cool rain mixing in with the hot tears that continue to run down her face try as she might to stop its flow.  They all knew the old man was in his final days, still knowing Death is coming does very little to lessen the blow of the final strike of his scythe once he arrives.

It is fitting, she thinks. It is fitting that it has rained most of this day; it matches her mood as she opens the car door, when they pull up to the cemetery.  Taking her hand as she exits the vehicle, her husband Henri gives her a reassuring hug. A gentle reminder of his presence though he is otherwise silent, leaving her to her thoughts.  She knows he understands, she needs this visit to the old man’s grave.

The rain damped lawn yields gently as they walk back over the grass to the waiting car. A bittersweet smile crosses her face as she remembers how the old man walked her down the aisle on her wedding day.  Showing signs of his advancing age, he was just starting to become unpredictable in his behavior. She had let family convince her that it was perhaps better if she walked down the grassy aisle on her own. But in the end how could she deny him this? She was happy she stuck to her guns, having faith in him knowing how important this was to her. That he would do his very best.  And he was what he had always been, regal, charming and such the perfect gentleman.

The same gentleman he was when Henri, in front of the entire family, showed him the engagement ring and asked his permission to marry Delilah.  The old man gave a good-natured protective growl, but then his playful bark of approval, soon followed. Even her own father laughed hard at that, as Henri then inquired the same of him, fully knowing Henri had asked permission in the correct order.  Eventually, he got around to actually asking Delilah herself to the delight of everyone.

The old man was sitting by her side as always the day she met Henri at the outdoor café.  New to the city, he was lost. He placed a map in front of Delilah asking directions, without really looking at her nor the old man. She smiled removing her shades as she pointed to the then not so old man and teased that Henri was better off showing the map to him. Only then did Henri notice the harness, realized Delilah was blind and began to apologize profusely at his “oversight”. Delilah laughed at his use of oversight and introduced Henri to Oberon, her fourteen year old, canine service companion.  Delilah smiled as she heard Henri squat down and give the dog a friendly scratch behind the ear.

“Well hello there, old man.”

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Weekly Writing Challenge: Writing Backward

Daily Prompt | What A Twist!