On this night before my birthday I remember a boy. Yes, a boy. A pre pubescent boy who used to throw hundreds of spitballs at the back of my head in our Drama class. The boys name was Dan Hatt. Tomorrow I turn 43 years old. Dan died the summer after our memorable year of bully/victim. I have lived many lives in this single one, made tons of friends all over the world, laughed until I have cried, gave birth to two cool sons, seen beautiful things, worked my ass off, written some poems, donated my bone marrow to someone who is now alive and well, adopted some sweet homeless animals and found love after I gave up on anyone ever loving me at all. Dan was out riding his bike when he was struck by a car. This is why I wince when I hear others moan about getting older, when they point out their crows feet and creaking bones. I used to do that bullshit, too and I refuse to anymore. 43 years is DAMN GOOD. Its a gift. Blessed doesnt even describe it. I walk and I breathe. I age. I am turning my face towards death more and more each day. My survival is a testament to sheer luck, genetics, God, the Orishas, my ancestors, Nicks loving-care and my own damn pride. With all that working together 24/7 how could I be pissy about growing old??? Dan Hatt, you ugly little boy- I be GROWN now. I toss these spitballs back at you cause now I got the courage and the strength and yes- the AGE. I hope they reach you- somewhere in that mystical land of nowhere. Please shoot them back, loaded with more spit. I await our communication. I am deeply sorry about your luck. Happy birthday to me. Amen, Ashe and Shalom.
Posted on: Fri, 11 Jul 2014 03:50:24 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015