Works in Progress

She came in, initially cheerful and jolly, her usual buoyant self. But as soon as she sat her food on the counter, slid her feet from her boots, and dropped her bag onto the floor, it were as if she was dropping a load she’d been carrying for too long. At the thump of her bag, the tears fell and her spirit seemingly began to speak for her. In control? Not this time.

From her lips came the explanations, experiences, and words that I’d been too fearful to share myself. All there was to do was to nod in agreement. This wasn’t one of those moments that demanded that I hold her and allow her tears to soak my shoulder and her cries to be muffled by chiffon shirts and pearl necklaces. No, it wasn’t one of those moments. This was a grown up moment: let her tears fall and her breasts catch them and let her be frustrated. Let her realize she’s worthy of more and of better things, better experiences and better moments. But in order to get better we have to suffer a bit. Learn, a bit. Be upset and scared, a bit. To be frustrated and angry, lost and dazed, a bit. To wonder and question self worth when self worth has been shattered to bits and pieces like broken glass on concrete floors. Yet, life begs of us, challenges us, to pick up the pieces and create a new canvas. It was one of those moments. It was a time to let her be her. To let her see who she’s grown and evolved into. Let the little girl, naïve and boisterous, clueless and inexperienced, be laid to rest.

I stopped me so he could be. So that he could find his niche in the world as it exists. So I cradled his dreams in my bosom like an expecting mother cradles her belly to let her creation knew she is here, to protect its existence. To ensure that it’s grand entrance is loud and clear, safe and protected, nurtured and loved unconditionally.

This here is the solo that most women have sang at some point in their lives. And we, now full and grown women, now realize how much had been postponed so that we too could sing this song.

It’s a surprise that I still have my sanity. Life took left turns when it should have yielded to oncoming traffic, forthcoming problems, and preconceived notions. Yet, I stayed. And so did she. We felt that the cause was worthy of an ongoing fight. But what to do when the battle is not worth guns then roses, not worth tears then sweat dripping and pore opening make-up sex therapy? What to do then? What to do when he breathing makes your skin crawl and your eyes flutter in frustration, when to hear his keys jingle at the door and you instantly become a full blown pragmatist, expecting the worst when you know you deserve the best? What is a woman to do then?

We stayed. But because we stayed and fought and battled out relationships that had ended months and sometimes years before we’d caught up to the heart of the matter, when the end finally drew near, we shielded our hearts, our eyes, our very existence, yet, we still didn’t know what was coming to us.

So now, we face each day, as works in progress.

We wake each morning feeling better than its predecessor. We allow our laughter to travel from the pit of our bellies to the nape of our necks so that the world may hear us, so that our presence here is known and forever etched into what used to be. We fight now and we fight daily and constantly and notwithstanding help, to decide what is best for us; trying our damnest to figure out the matters of our hearts and not that of others.

We once again are blank canvases waiting to be splurged on, to have tales written onto and into us so that the draft may be torn to shreds and required to begin anew. We go into each day, alone and bare, naked and new, ready and waiting and wanting new experiences. New ideas and thoughts that allow us to say “I have” instead of wanting, dreaming, or thinking of things we want to do. We do now – for us and therefore, for our futures, for what’s to become, for what is to be excluded so that better may be included. 

The journey for sure has not been the most adventurous; nor has it been the best, what we wished and anticipated. But it’s been a journey that has warranted us to give thanks and to mature, to understand and comprehend, to work beyond and towards – to be grateful for who and what we have become. And for these adventures, we understand that with each day we are given another chance to live and to do better, to become women we weren’t the previous day, the more we understand we are nothing more than works in progress. Anxious and awaiting canvases, drafts – waiting for new experiences to rip us open so that life may sew us up again and place it all on repeat.

Just Like That

Most mornings, when I don’t have to tend to any one of my three jobs, my alarm isn’t what wakes me. Instead, it’s his “Good morning” text. And just like that, a smile crosses my face, from ear to ear, cheek to cheek. My brown eyes I’m sure light up because I don’t even feel the weight of sleep on my lids and I happily text back “Good morning”. Sometimes we even have lengthy conversations about life: anticipations, downfalls and shortcomings, the stresses of adulthood – all at seven o’clock in the morning. And after all is said and done, we wish each other good (now great) days and graciously say thanks.

We met in college: I the freshman and he the sophomore. We clicked - immediately. From the beginning, I was fascinated by him. Fascinated by the way he walked and talked: side to side stroll, perfect enunciation, and very little slang. Quick with words, he embodied all I’d wished for: an intelligent urbanite who made me think and feel good. His teeth were white and perfect that embodied one of the most gorgeous smiles I’ve ever seen. He was tall, thick and solid, with deep, endearing brown eyes. He was everything I never crossed, or had the pleasure to entertain or to be entertained by. And I was attracted. There was no denying it.

We’d created a ritual: before or after class, it was deemed our time. And our time the majority of the time was spent nestled in sheets for quick half hours to get our days started. It was convenient and fun. For the both of us, it was different. There was no title. No responsibility or position. We understood, with no discussion into the matter, that at any moment or time this could end. Yet, we kept at it, believing and convincing ourselves that this was platonic. Unbeknownst me, this non-committed commitment would eventually become a problem. But somewhere in the midst of the fun and excitement, somewhere between all-nighters and caramel lattes, somewhere in the time spent together, however trivial and unpromising, I caught feelings. And the feelings that I tried to control, eventually got out of control. I wanted more than rendezvous’ that took us across city and back, but was too fearful of expressing any of these feelings to him or admitting them to myself. My form of control was to sever ties and let the memories of his bedroom and the subway rides before and after class to become figments of my past. So I sent a text. Said what I thought I needed to say, but not what I really wanted to say. He responded; frustrated and confused, in a daze and lost as he attempted to understand why I made such a brash, sudden decision to leave him alone and remove him from my life. To make him a memory that I wouldn’t even visit. I never responded. Just like that, I let him go. And left him alone. Or so I thought.

Fast forward two plus years.

I had never stopped thinking about him and his style, his swag as we say in big metropolitan cities. Always wondered and questioned the what ifs: what if I’d never sent that text; what if I’d told him what and how I really felt about him; what if I’d asked him to be mine, and mine alone, maybe, just maybe, I’d be happy. I always wondered what was he up to and how was his life going while mine was falling apart at the seams with no needle and thread to piece it back together. I was the lone soldier fighting for the survival of a relationship that no longer existed realistically, yet I was still in it. I’d fallen in and out of love on a seemingly daily basis with a man who still yearned for the streets, who allowed those fantasies and wants of what existed outside of our relationship, to view me as second best. I wanted out, but didn’t know how or when, yet, I had a laundry list of reasons why I had every right to walk away and never turn back. It baffled me daily, how I could lay next to my partner, to my lover, to the man who I cooked breakfast and dinner for, washed his clothes and his back if he’d asked me to, and wonder about someone whose memory and existence I’d promised myself I wouldn’t visit. So for months, I questioned if I should reach out to him. And for months, I told myself no. Never look back. Never go back. Leave then, there. But one evening, I ignored these notions; I typed my message and clicked send. Just like that. Unbeknownst, I’d also opened up a new can of worms.

A few days later, he responded. And my heart fluttered rapidly. His response, ‘who’s this?’ Heart sunk to depths I never knew existed. I played with whether I should respond or not, if I should refresh his memory like a steady clocking web browser. Instead, I deleted his response and my original message. Just like that. Delete. Case closed. On with your life.

Or so I thought.

A day or two later, he sent a message on his own accord, and thrilled merely doesn’t explain the sheer excitement I felt. His memory had been refreshed, without me even having to do it. I was happy that he remembered me. Regardless of what his memory was, I’d obviously made some sort of indentation in and on his life for him to recall just who I was. And just like that, we were back on. As if we never stopped.

We re-entered each others lives quickly; like childhood friends who lose touch after elementary school graduation and reconnect as adults. I was happy and satisfied. My eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice when he called or answered. When his good mornings and good nights were received, opened, and read. There was something specific about him that I sorely lavished in, and secretly, was falling for. He did what was not required of him, but his willingness to do so, made him even more special. He was a secret worth holding onto, and I held on for dear life.

I remember the date: October 19^th. It was a Friday. And I was so excited to see his face after two years, though I’d never forgotten it, and knew I never would. A few past 10pm, I saw his silhouette strolling confidently down my block, he looked like exactly what I remembered and smelled even better. We hugged tightly. This tightness, I felt every curve and memorized it and wished not to let go. This tightness was nothing but an endearing love that whispered ‘I miss you more than words or actions could possibly explain.’ With this tightness, the hair stubble of his beard pinched my neck, yet, I didn’t even mind. I felt his hands firmly grasping my waist, the scent of his cologne on his neck and collar, the thickness of his neck, and the coldness of his face from the autumn night breeze. I stood, hugging this man, inhaling his scent and feeling the sheer beauty of his skin, knowing exactly what road I was on and I knew at no time soon would I yield to anyone or anything – let alone stop. I could’ve stood there for eternity and not have gotten tired. And just like that, I came to realize and accept that my feelings for him were not just those of lust and infatuation, but of sincerity and compassion. My feelings, felt at home; they were where they wanted to be.

And since then, my thoughts have been consumed by him; wanting to see him more, to kiss and hug him more. To stare into his silly brown eyes more. And feel his hands grasp my waist and hug me forever more. I wanted him more than what I anticipated; wanted him more now than I did then. I wanted him to be who I woke up next to on lazy weekends. I wanted to see his name in my incoming, outgoing, and missed call log more than anyone else’s name. I wanted him to be the man who I sloped my body across to watch afternoon sitcoms and nightcap movies. But the reality of it all was that I wanted him, but knew right then and there, he was not to be my own, not to be claimed by me at that moment in time because I was unfortunately already claimed and attached to another. And as dissatisfied as I was with what was at home, this was the reality of my situation. Relentlessly, I was bothered and haunted by the fact that he was where I genuinely wanted to be, but I wasn’t. I was even more bothered by his contentment and wanting to be my number two. But every fiber of me wanted and needed this man to be my main man.

So for months, we played around. Our good mornings became a routine, it felt odd if one wasn’t sent or received. He became my consummate partner with no title. We said nice things to one another just to make the other smile. Sent smiley faces in text messages and expressed excitement about the next time we’d see each other. He became an important piece of fabric in my life just as I was in his. He was the person who I could (and I did), talk his ear off about anything: problems in my relationship, problems at work, what happened at the nail salon, or what I planned to do this coming new year. He listened. Never interrupted. Never judged. Never made me feel that my words were falling on deaf ears. I knew he not only heard me, but he listened.  I always had his full, undivided attention, and that meant the world to me.

And as time passed and the stresses from my everyday no longer mattered, things began to change. Hugs turned into kisses. Pecks upon lips were given freely and when least expected. Nicknames became necessaries and staples. And just like that, I came to realize, understand, and accept the fact that he meant more to me than sexual escapades and blocks of time spent. He wasn’t just someone in my life, but someone who meant something to my life. I wanted and consequently needed him around. He added to my life and time with him was never wasted.

I was quickly approaching my birthday and overwhelmingly fighting the realization that I was getting older. The more I fought this idea, the more I understood and comprehended that life was designed to continue. It was designed for us to fight ideologies and defeat them. He found my sadness and frustration with age to be a form of humor. His laughs have always been and still are hearty and full; they make me laugh and the timing of them have always been perfect. Subsequently, age made me realize that the relationship I was in, needed to end so that I could began. And it did. Tragically and not in an amicable manner, but it ended. And even in the end, he was there. It was then he explained to me “I don’t know if you realize this, but you have every right to be picky with anything you do. If you don’t a man who cheats, you can weed them out. If you don’t want a dude with kids, you have the right to deny them. You deserve whatever you want, but only if you’re willing to go after it.’ I thought to myself, ‘but I want you. Why can’t and don’t I have you?’ I never opened my mouth.

The fascination that filled my body over four years prior still existed. And as time passed, as we grew older and began to experience the trials and challenges of life, as adulthood slam dunked the reality of what it meant to be an adult, to be grown, into our lives, the more we began to rely on one another for strength and a listening ear. We became tangible fabrics in the lives of each other. It no longer was a-here-today-gone-tomorrow-situation – our purposes and existence in each others lives appeared to be and felt semi-permanent. And just like that, existence and purpose began to get analyzed and studied like a piece of literature. What we added to the lives of one another became crucial and critical as the days passed and the vices of life ensued.

We wanted each other, and wanted it badly. It showed in the way we stared into each others eyes. It showed when his hand folded and wrapped itself into mine. When I’d press my nose into his neck and deeply inhale his scent. It showed when he made it clear that he wanted to hear my voice before closing his eyes for the night, just to hear each other say goodnight. When we’d call each other on our lunch breaks or on our way home, or when our stress levels have peaked and need an unbiased ear. He was there for me just as I was there for him – but it wasn’t enough. And because of this, we found ourselves pulling away, whether from the stresses of life, or from the realization that though closed mouths don’t get fed, we never bothered to open our mouths to voice concerns and wants, we began to change toward one another. And just as the whether grew cold, something changed. It was noticeable, and I was bothered by it.

Sweet kisses and text messages are perfect when all is well – but what happens when it’s time to weather the storm? When to have a body lying next to me is wanted and needed, more than an empty promise to visit or when a week’s worth of ‘good morning’ texts are never sent and therefore received? I realized that though we temporarily claimed each other’s attention and bodies, our hearts were not to be claimed. It became daunting to me, and I’m sure on him as well, that to greet each other day in and day out without knowing what the final outcome would be, was a feat that bought forth nothing but anguish and frustration. So day-to-day is how we handled each other because we understood that we bought something new to this invalid relationship every day. And no days were promised. None of them had guarantees. No one and nothing ensured us that one day I would be his and he would be mine. I had to come to grips and realize that sooner than later, just maybe, as mystical and godly as this man is, he just may get tired of playing cat and mouse. I was forced to admit the fact that as beautiful as this mans existence and all that he embodies is, neither of us belonged to one another; he could not bare permanent claim to me. And though he changed daily and surprised me even more, I knew I had to take my heart off of the table before it became lost in a whirlwind of emotions.

He’d been stressing about work and I was happily adjusting to the single life. His calls had ceased, visits stopped, messages went unanswered. At one point, it had been two weeks since the last time I’d heard his voice, and even longer since I’d been able to feel him. I knew something was wrong and had convinced myself that his joy with me had ended and maybe, just maybe, the thrill was gone; but I hoped and prayed it was just stress and he needed space. Against my own desire, but for the sake of my heart, I’d vowed that I was once again done with him: no texts, calls, or visits. I went cold turkey, but daily, thought of him. Daily, I wanted to send that good morning text, that good night text, that I miss you more than I believe you know or could possibly understand text. I wanted the back and forth to stop. I needed it to end. But I also needed him to know he was missed; so I told him. And thereafter, things significantly changed. Yet, he still is not mine, but I believe in my heart-of-hearts, someday, he will be – or so I hope.

When I think of him, he reminds me of a school girl crush that’s grown beyond crushing and lusting, but has settled at the tip of love. In my belly, butterflies have harvested themselves and they flutter at simple thoughts of him. That quiver at the idea of never. That tighten at the idea of not having. But school girl crushes too have to grow; and often, they have to grow fast. They too have to face life and its realities. They too have to realize and understand that they deserve more than the minimum. More than the basics, or bare necessities, or what’s left over.

It’s always been said not to count your chickens before they hatch, but at least anticipate them. And he was and is anticipated to every degree possible. I wanted and still want this man to belong to me. The reality that I am forced to face daily is that if he wanted me and wanted us, the effort would have gone far beyond text messages, monthly visits, and even fewer calls. If it were possible, I would have loved this man who hugged me so tightly, kissed me so sweetly and so gently, and who wished me nothing but good days, bought nothing but smiles across my face, and showed nothing but respect and compassion, why was he not mine and I not his? The woman I’ve grown into has made it clear that though not all things are meant to bud, grow, and flourish – the love of and for this man that I dream of, is not one of those things. At least that is what I pray and wish upon. I pray and wish that my want and desire for him, does not go unnoticed or unrequited. Though I am forced daily to fight against what is realistic and pragmatic, fight the thought that he is who and what I want, I just may not get him, I remain a hopeful romantic when it comes to him.

Too often, we daydream ourselves into worlds that do not exist, worlds that if they were meant to belong to us and to be claimed by us, they would be ours to have and to hold. We want what we know we will not obtain or receive regardless of the fight. We live for love, and die for it to – fight to endless depths to taste it. Convenience is always that bittersweet friend who fogs the glass and obscures what reality really is. And the reality of him is that it’s fun for now, and so long as the fun ensues, all is well. But in my heart-of-hearts, with closed lids and a humble heart, it’s wished upon stars that this is not the case.

And though I’ve spilled and filled these pages with uncertainty and confusion, I fight daily and often because he is with whom and where I want to be. Yet, at the heart of the matter, he is not mine to claim. And battles with the heart are always dangerous.

Growing is merely an extension of letting go. And it is here where I, and most of us, get stuck and lost in a daze. Fearing what is not known or familiar, it is the ‘hypothetically’s’ and ‘what if’s’ that haunt us like distant childhood nightmares trotting through our memories. We often, nearly always, convince ourselves that what is in our present, in our right now, is right for us right now. But what if it isn’t? What if there exists and breathes a man who will fight not just endlessly, but to the death for us? What if there lives a man who not only promises not to make us cry, but keeps his word, and for him, we never shed a tear out of pain? What if what, and who we are holding onto, what we want to keep around, no longer wants us to fight on their behalf?

I fight these ideas; these thoughts with shields and swords like a knight, all while questioning if he feels, does, or if he would even do the same just to keep me around? And suddenly, my heart quivers and the butterflies tighten. My youthful energy dwindles and my eyes glimmer with tears. But before the tears could fall, I face them head on and convince myself and my heart that what I do and how I feel is not in vain. And just like that, I make it known that letting go and moving on, is not an option. And just like that, continue to move in and out of days hoping he’ll take notice of my supreme dedication. And just like, I take my heart from the vault, and place it on the table.

The {every-year} Holiday Battle

Holidays with my family are always full of good times and the laughter of children. And of course, good great food. If you ask me, no one's cooking could ever rival my mother's. Which is why I was so excited this past New Year as we ushered in 2010 when I cooked cabbage for the first time and it tasted just like my mother's. Women, I believe, spend our lives trying to perfect our cooking to taste just like Mom's. My next task: the baked mac and cheese (my brother and I return home everytime she cooks it.)

But off of the topic of food.

As joyous and exciting as the holidays are, they're also secretly saddening. It's during these times we look back and reflect on the lives that we wish were present physically, and not just spiritually, or in memory. It's during this time of the year, that I get particularly sad about my grandfather, my Bay-Bay, no longer being with me. I can't speak his name, or think back to then, or what could have been for now, without becoming flustered and teary-eyed, voice crackling, and tears eventually falling. There's never been a man I've adored or loved as much as him. No man's memory has ever bought tears to my eyes but his so easily. His smile and laughter, his denim blue hat and staple white button up shirt, tucked into the waist of his pants and it sat snug over his protruding belly - are missed more than I could possibly express in words or in actions.

I was 9 when he passed. He died of a massive heart attack, and from what I'd been told, on the steps of a friend. He was and has always been my favorite man. And it's because of this, my mother, step-father, and the rest of the family, had chosen as a collective, not to tell me about his passing until after the service. Until after the logistics had been taken care of. I've always felt some type of way about that collective decision, because I'd never been given the chance, the opportunity to say good-bye. Granted I've said and say it in my dreams, whisper it to the skies above when I think about him, and when the tears fall so easily down my cheeks - it's just not the same.

It's due to his death that writing became my safe haven; the safest place on earth. But it's also due to his death in particular that holidays just aren't the same. Nor are birthdays. Or graduations. Or life-altering moments like the birth of my now 2-year-old sister or when my Grandma had to have brain surgery, my elementary or high school graduations, acceptance into college, or when I moved into my own place. Granted, he's everpresent because that's just how Bay-Bay is, it's never been the same.

As a child, I recall sitting on his back while we watched Star Trek or V (he loved Sci-fi flicks, and I've never been able to watch them since) while I dolled his hair up with barrettes and ballies. We'd take random trips to the ice cream parlor on Ridge Avenue. He'd let me help him clean out his white van with the burgandy interior. Or, he'd just sit, with me on his lap. It's because of him I fell in love with Red Lobster's cheddar bay biscuits and with Red Lobster in general. He was my Bay-Bay, and I was his Nurl-Nurl (and forever will be).

Courtesy of he and my Grandmother, I was spoiled, rotten, and there wasn't much of anything to do about it. The first grand, the first girl, I was lavished with gifts and candy, movies and late nights watching sci-fi flics with my favorite, main man. My squeaky cackle and his rolling, bellowing laughter always filled up whatever room we were in. My mother always says to me "Just imagine how much more spoiled you'd be if he were here". Unfortunately, just like we don't know how many licks it takes to get to the center of tootsie pop, the world may never know the full extent of my spoiled rotteness. From birth, when doctors deemed my life to be over before it had even began, this man, held and nurtured me from birth, daily. There was never a day that his love was not shown.

I was a little girl being shown what love was all about. What it felt and sound like. Was being taught as a child that when love is gone, however it departs, there's no replacing the void left behind.

It's been 14 years.
And holidays, life has never been the same.
That void, that hole in my heart has never scabbed over to heal.

As children, we're taught "I Love You" as a part of speech. But we don't understand the action, the feat, what it looks and feels like until later in life. And if we're lucky enough, someone pivotal enough, important enough, loving enough, like my Bay-Bay teaches it to us in simplistic ways that are easily digested for us as children. And as we age, it becomes clearer to us just what they were teaching us. And that's what hurts the most: we've known love since before our birth, but somewhere between that first breath and adulthood, we lose or have lost the language of love.

Lucky me, I had a man who as big, black, and chunky as he was, taught me just what love was and what love is so that as an adult, I could understand it, I could digest it just as easily as I had when he let me style his coily, soft black hair or say his nickname for me: Nurl Nurl. That, is love.

Lucky me, from birth to age 9, and even now at 23, that man to whom I hold so dearly and so tightly to my heart and my memories, loved and loves me the way love is supposed to be done.

So while you stuff your face this holiday season with turkey, stuffing, and baked mac and cheese, sweet potatoe pie, cheesecake, and egg nog, realize, that this is all about love and nothing else. While death is promised, life isn't guaranteed, LOVE, sits cradled somewhere between the two - and it's up to us, to recognize it, and be willing to share it with another.