I carried the lopsided weight of this anniversary with awkward inner silence.
My plate was full and work would not be denied but the revelation would not be ignored.
Significance wraps her shadow arms around my neck; legs about my waist as would a two year old clinging to mother because she is too tired to walk.
She’s sleepy ; cranky and demanding attention.
I did not scroll through pictures. I did not replay moments and for the first time in 7 years I did not toast to their memory.
This 7th year arrived on the heels of a more recent news event. A Facebook murder streamed live.
I watched as Stevie Steve spoke about his angst and how his relationship with his mother and girlfriend caused him to “snap.” I listened patiently to his rant; hoping to find some sense or connection between the mental and the macabre.
But he sounded like every brother on the block.
His sympathy symphony of “who got my back” played center stage inside his childish rage and I know there are equally lost souls who “get” where he’s coming from because the layers of wrong are so deeply imbedded in mental illness masquerading as “keeping it real.”
I mourn Charles and Sandy dying. Openly weep and today they deserve my undivided attention but my attention is deeply divided.
Split, splintered and fractured.
Because on the eve of the 7th anniversary of the brutal double murder then suicide of three people I had the privilege of once loving; I watched as Stevie Stephens walked up to a complete stranger; invoked his ex girlfriend’s name, told his victim to say her name then tell him”she’s the reason this is happening to you” and shoot him point blank.
This murdering man put the onus for his mental instability squarely onto the palms of the hands of women who he felt did not perform to his specifications.
The fault line is cracking up.
I did not watch the trigger being pulled.
I know what a man’s head exploding from bullets looks like, smells like, feels like. I had no desire to see it and I’m unnerved by the need for people to share the video online. No one should be witness to violent death.
It changes you.
Supremes broken promise, in the eyes of God, to love, honor and obey his wife left innumerable holes within pockets of my empathy.
I don’t trust.
That’s it. End of sentence. I have no trust.
There was a time when I thought the Black man was the most beautiful creation God made.
There was a time.
Intellectually I understand what I’m feeling but emotionally I’m feeling it and can’t extract the intellect. I’ve been trapped inside this quandary for 7 years and every year without fail there has been a murder, murder suicide to compliment my non compliance.
There was a time.
Now I carry the weight of my former self on weary shoulders; Violent death has given birth to her and there’s noone here but me to take care of her. No heavier than a shadow she walks beside me holding my hand in fear; runs behind me when she thinks I’m leaving; clings to my leg begging to be picked up when I’m busy and curls up next to me when I sleep.
Poor orphaned hope waiting for a fostered home.