It’s 3:30 in the morning and the rain has woke me. I can’t help, but hear it’s relentlessness, on my tin roof. It use to be louder, until I let an asshole stay here, for a while and he insulated over my bedroom, which had become his temporary bedroom. The sound of the rain brings joy to my heart. It promotes contemplation. It heals me. It washes the earth.
That guy was a pain in my ass.
When I was young, on a Saturday afternoon, in the middle of this neighborhood, looking to score, at the local tavern, The Island Bar, and found myself surrounded by police cars, I was shocked to be white.It was so obvious. They were there to break up a fight, I was really wishing I was a different color. They looked at me, cutting their eyes, saying, “what the hell are you doing here?”
I’m sitting on my couch, my daughter laying sixty feet away, suffering with cancer. I have chosen to not write about this, in the past, because it’s too personal, too overwhelming and there has been too much conflict.
I came home from Costa Rica, February 18, 2019, on an emergency ticket. I went straight to the hospital and proceeded to fall apart. Little by little, I have pieced myself back together, as I sit on the sidelines and watch her CANCER process, played out with the doctors, my sister and her father.