Let Go

He had always been a man’s man. Tough. Strong. You can tell by looking at his hands. They were thick, rough and hardened from years of outside work. Those hands had seen hammer to nail, bullet to gun, and rod to child, feed to beast, years of struggle.
Even on his deathbed at 86, James’ hands told a story. They showed his personality, always independent. He cut grass to stay in shape, which helped him stay well oiled.
Out to his last days, James wanted no one to cry over him, or to look with pity. At 86, he’d seen a many of things. His mom and dad went to glory. Friends gone. He’d already accepted his fate. He would go out like a solider. No help wanted.
Once a proud service man, he used to tell the little ones tales of his battle days. During that time he’d traveled around the world.
“I flew out from New York and (a few months later) flew into California,” he said. “I traveled by boat, train and plane.”
He’d come back home to the deep bayous to raise a full house. Generations came and went. Though educated to a mere secondary level himself, he was a master in sending several to school to get degrees. He pulled baby teeth. He taught the children how to ride bikes. He taught them how to sit at the dinner table. He did everything a man was supposed to do. So he’d almost ran his course. The family was grateful.
One day his only son came to see about him. The son held his father’s hand. He recited a strong, short prayer. Then son just continued to hold his father’s hand. If just to feel his warmth. But dad’s grip weakened. He struggled. Dad called. “Reggie,” he mustered. “Yes Daddy,” Reggie answered. Son leaned in close. The man’s voice wouldn’t carry far. A minute passed. His hands falling limp in his son’s grip. Down on his bed, unable to move anymore the old man took heavy breaths. He needed his son close. Son still gripped his hand. Dad gathered all his strength, and yet still weakly led his son’s ear to his mouth. Dad voiced (to his only son).
“Let. …Go. …My. …Hand.”


…After all he’s still a man.

In memory of my Uncle James.

Sunday Blu's

It started out innocently. It was a normal Sunday morning in church. Like everyone else I waited in the lobby while Rev said a prayer. When he finished, we walked in and just to be appropriate Brother Blu, an usher stretched out his hand to mine for a handshake. I politely returned gesture with a friendly, warm handshake. Quick. Then I leaned my head to the right and smiled. I hadn’t walked but five steps to get to my regular seat when a stench hit me. I prayed a prayer. Then sucked my teeth in disgust. After shaking Brother Blu’s hand, mine reeked of stale urine.
Now, I’d vowed before to never shake a man’s hand again. Or hug one, unless he’s my kinship or boyfriend for that matter. People sneeze. And don’t wash. People eat. And don’t wash. People use the restroom. And don’t wash. That’s about a million germs. Festering.
Brother Blu caught me off guard. I woke up feeling great and looked forward to service. I planned on being nice that day. Besides I figured that since I was in church it couldn’t have been that bad.
Yet, I sat upset in my nice, cream tailored suit. Not a string or button was out of place. The stitching was flawless. As the overhead fan spun my hair flowed in the breeze. I looked like I’d stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue. I wore a light perfume to bless anyone who came close enough to me for the scent to touch them. I woke up extra early to prepare for church. Did all of that for Brother Blu to come and put a blemish on my design. I frowned hard. I was almost Heaven until he came along. Normally, I am cool. But when I made it to my seat, my hands started to perspire. Rev started to preach again and it would have been rude for me to get up and wash my hands. I sat stuck and disgusted. I didn’t want to hear anything Rev had to say. From time to time I’d smell my hand to see if the funk died down. It didn’t.
Then I took to looking at Brother Blu out of the corner of my eye to see who had sat next to him on his bench. It stayed empty. He nodded to the sermon. And clapped when the choir sang songs. The whole time he’s totally oblivious to his offense. Up until the end of church, a woman sat next to him. She was trying to sneak in, hoping no one saw her late so I guessed she didn’t care if Brother Blu needed a bath (with about a capful of bleach). She looked to be in bad need of one too.
From then on I’m a mean girl.
If you see me don’t shake my hand. Don’t even try to give me a hug. I don’t deserve it. Pass me over. I will not be upset. Just think, B is snobbish. I’ve got funny ways, only speaking and smiling to certain people.
And the meeting of a guy I hadn’t seen in a long time in Blockbuster made me write this blog. He felt dissed that I didn’t shake his outstretched hand. He shouldn’t be.
I just had a bad case of Sunday Blues. I had an unfortunate contact with Brother Blu.