I really miss you.

It didn’t hit me until this year.
Almost 11 years later, just to remind me of how the 11’s, 13th’s and 21’s loved to dance in my head.
Having their own ballet of unfortunate events in my memory bank.
While your memory plays on a loop.
Yet that value always outweighs the sadness.
Holding on to your memories like toes on a tight rope. And as I still walk around cautiously keeping my head on a swivel because you always told me how to aim high.

And here I am…. still looking up hoping that one day you’d say something. Tell me that everything that I have been through is bringing me to this point. That all my worries are just stepping stones. That you are proud.

We don’t get that luxury down here but to know is all we need.
Great is thy faithfulness and to be absent is to be present above. How the way love always carried a tune with you.
You always taught me so much.
Leaving your mark.
I just wish your fragrance lasted longer.

Out of all the things you’ve taught me the urge to not question God never faded. I’ll never know what could come from this grief. While still being curious.
Why did you have to be on the starting pick for the 2013 Draft? Out of all the strongest players but this must be the best seat.
Seeing my accomplishments and growth.
Acknowledging that you are proud in my baby girls smile.
Without creating the space within me I really wouldn’t be in the place I am in.
Walked in rooms that I could only imagine the smell of the paint.
As your memory remains on going. Know that everything is still in remembrance of you.
And I may didn’t live up to my end because life just has its own way.

I miss you. Sorry that it took me so long to add ink to it.

Lourdes Islas Martinez, I didn’t know you.
I never thought I looked like you.
But I think of you almost every day.

When I was little, I thought of you when I looked down at my thumbs.
“Those skip a generation,” Mom said. “My mother had thumbs like that!”

Is it weird to say I feel connected to you by toe thumbs?

As I approached forty (and Mom had made it to sixty-seven) I wondered if what had taken you early from your family would take me early from mine. Does cancer skip a generation too?

When I lost my pregnancy and someone said something ugly, I cried and cried and cried.
I stopped taking your great-grandbabies on field trips.
On Sundays, I hid between the pews.

Do you remember how your memory snapped me out of my misery when I had a panic attack too?

It was Mom’s memory of you and Aunt Lizzy and the watermelon seeds.
It made me think of something else.
It was another weird connection (kind of like toe thumbs).

‘Cucaracha! Cucaracha!!! CUCARACHA!!!!’
Mom ran into the kitchen screaming while you were on the phone!

You ran into the bathroom, screaming at those little black ovals.
They were floating, creeping, SNEAKING toward Lizzy’s chubby legs.
Mom laughed and teased, “Those are just my watermelon seeds!”

You were too kind to punish her.
You just said, “Wait until your father gets home.”

Do you know Mom ends every story of you the same way?

My mother was the kindest person.
I wish you could have known her.
You are just like her.
You would have loved her.
She was very social.

That day I cried until my heart was in my throat,
I was thinking of you, Mom, and Aunt Lizzy and the watermelon seeds.
I was picturing you in heaven pain free.
Were you whispering to me?
Or was it God with a divine Dad joke?
I don’t know, but this was the thought that came:

Dead people don’t gossip—they have better things to do.
Don’t you?

That snapped me up and made me laugh.
It was true.

I couldn’t picture you fretting over church gossip.
In the presence of God and everything holy and good.

Though I hadn’t been the one spreading it,
I’d been repeating it.
I’d been saying it in my mind and thinking things no one should.

That answer gave me peace that day, but it didn’t stop compulsive thoughts I tried not to think or “bad” feelings I tried not to feel.

If someone at church was unkind.
Or angry.
Or disappointed.
Or they gossiped about me.
It got me every time.

When that happened, I didn’t think of things said and done when I was young to try and make me conform or “believe.”
I just physically felt the same things as if I was again fifteen.

It would be years before other answers came.
Such as not allowing others to mistreat me or my family (even at church).

But that answer that day, thinking of you, turned my thoughts toward God.
It put me in His (and your) light.

The anticipation of a conversation
a moment’s pause, a heart’s sensation
An expectation of words unsaid
A binding connection, a delicate thread

The fabric was woven, the story was told
a legacy kept, forever to hold
A journey of words, a longing to know became a tapestry rich, a narrative to grow

The art of conversation, a gentle guide
leading me through the labyrinth of time
To listen to memories, a heart’s treasure a mind’s archive, a soul’s measure

All that you were and the joy you spread became part of me, of who I am
Reflections of my younger days your voice, your presence, your beautiful face

Our memories, an album of distant times
keeps the joy of better days alive
Reluctant to embark on unknown paths
comfort comes from waves of our past

Your existence upon which I became
was a guide, a light, so much more than name
The courage you showed throughout your life
echoes deep within the depths of my mind

In that stillness, I found my voice
A sense of clarity, a heartfelt choice
The silence beckoned, I found my way
to a place of peace, where love will stay

“Go Ahead!” “Take Your Time.” Life Is An Ongoing Process”,
From One’s Life To One’s Deaths, We All Struggle For Existence,
It’s The Time Between The Two That One’s Great Wisdom Is Missed,
Now Where do I Even Start From this long, successful list?

A Rising Student at Cathedrals,
A Regentonian with Great Grammar,
A Traveler Past Lagos Canals,
To A Bay Fourah away-planner,
A man that favors morals, ethics and logistics,
And motion, momentum, Work done in Applied Physics.

A Father To Many And Grandfather To Many More,
Some Of Us May Openly Grieve While Others Have In Store,
The Sight From The Juba House Window Darkens As Far As Can See,
Will Miss The Stories At The Table Of Brer Fox And Anansi.
The Balls Played In The Compound Near The Toyota and Mercedes,
Will Miss Your Baritone Laugh Accompanied With Star or Baileys.

I Recall Your Tuning To The Radio,
BBC Or 98.6 Ratio,
To Pick Out Rhetoric In The Daily News,
Is a Skill I Wish To Master In The Views,
“If You Can’t Make A Friend, Do Not Make An Enemy,”
Your Words I Find Difficult To Follow Mentally,
Perhaps It Is The Plight Of The Young Man Within Me,
The Angst, The Confusion And All Things Lemony,
Your Last Advice Was That My Chance Would Come Soon,
And When It Comes, I Must Rise Up And Not Gloom,
I Know That I Can’t List All Of Your Success And The Steps,
But Like You Used To Say “Life Is An Ongoing Process.”

Dear God,

It’s internally overwhelming dealing with death. It’s like going out to dinner with 7 people at a table. You’re all aughing, smiling, enjoying that meal because it’s filled with love and it’s seasoned well. Your meal is over and it’s time to go back home, but then one of you don’t get back in the car. Your family is in the car and you watch the other family member stand outside the car. You wave to them and you become sad. It’s now 6 of you in the car driving back home in silence and confusion. You have to put that key in the door, open it and go up to that room where that person is no longer coming home to get in that bed. “Is this real?”

Reality hits and now you are sad. You’re crying, hyperventilating, and your brain is racing. You ask yourself “What just happened?” “Wait, wait, did I just leave my loved one at the restaurant and watch them walk off into the fog? “Maybe, I was dreaming?” You realized that you’re not. “Are they ever coming back?” “Who told tthem to go off into the fog like that?” You grab your phone to call them and hope they will pick up. RING…. RING….RING.. RING…

You hear something, as if someone picked up… “You have reached the voicemail of Pablo Joshua, please leave a message after the tone” “Dad, dad, are you there?” …BEEEEP…….. “Dad, please pick up, it’s me, Janet”. “Dad, can you hear me?” Then……Cancer, he answers. “No, your father is not here anymore, but you can speak to him at anytime”……silence…… more silence… more hyperventilating…..more heartache.. tears fall profusively…

“Hello, cancer, you really took him? Cancer, you son of a bitch! “

You really took him away from me, away from all of us??”…Who invited you into our lives?”.

You grab your chest because you can’t breathe. You even think, “maybe I should go back to that restaurant and join him in the fog”.

No, you can’t do that!

Its’s morning. I hear calypso music playing. The sun is up. I just don’t smell Johnny Cakes. I wish I did.

My dad is in my house and I see him everyday. I hear his voice, his fingers snapping, and his feet tapping to Hall & Oates.

(Music playing…lyrics are in tune)….
“You’re a rich girl, and you’ve gone too far
cause you know it don’t matter anyway…
You can rely on the old man’s money..
You can rely on the old man’s money..”

I walk down my steps and I see him. I smile. “Look at him, having a ball”, feeling the music in his soul. His eyes are closed and he is smiling. I see it. Look, at him. It’s my youngest son. His face is just like his. His soul is just like his. It’s beautiful to see. He’s my fathers twin.

I go down another flight of stairs and look at my dad, laughing and talking on the phone. Its my dads laugh so distinctively. It’s my oldest son. He’s my dads other twin.

I’m out at a restaurant and it’s music playing. I hear my dad speaking and playing his favorite tunes. I stop short, look up and smile. It’s him. There he is, being an amazing DJ that he loves to be. The voice on the mic and that’s Pablo’s voice. It’s, my brothers voice. He is such a great DJ, just like my dad. He makes his sets and send them out to people so they can enjoy and feel the love for music just like he taught us.

Wait! Just wait a minute, look at my dad out there on the dance floor. He loves two stepping to the music. I hear Anita Baker, Kenny G, and calypso king, Arrow. You can tell he feels the music with every step he takes. It’s My little brother and he is out dancing and smiling on the dance floor, just like my dad.

I hear sports playing, it’s loud. I use to wish he would turn that down. I hear the commentary. He’s watching sports. and now he’s broadcasting live from the station. Who would have thought that Dad? I know you are so proud of your baby boy. My youngest brother is the sportscaster. He is my dads other twin.

I see and hear my dad all the time. I’m blessed. I’m grateful. He lives in me everyday, he lives in my sons and my brothers.

God, my father taught me all about music.
He lived and breathed music. All genres!

What more could I ask for? God, his spirit is never leaving my house. You were right. I want to thank you God. I want to thank you for taking my dad and putting his soul at peace. As much as I said, I wish he was here for this or that… he is., and he multiplied.

Thank you!
Love Tiny!

P.S., please let my dad know, that I miss him and his legacy of music and sports will live on forever.

Wait, I can just tell him myself.
Good night!

Rest in peace to my dad, Pablo E Joshua 1/25/48 to 4/16/18

You were always on my side
You were my joy; I was your pride
In this cruel world, just us vs. them,
But all good things come to an end
Now I’m left here all alone
With that final goodbye,
My life shattered in the blink of an eye
Lost like an orphaned fawn,
How can I ever carry on
Without the only friend I’ve ever known?

Let the wires cross
Let the signal be lost
My thoughts erratic,
Lost in the radio static
Now that you’re not there
Make no mistake
There’s no return from this break
No time to dwell on loss,
Here’s my heart signing off,
Fading into dead air

So I’ll reset that emotional dial
And face it all with a smile,
Let this world strike me down
I’ll never show them a frown
As I try to live by your advice
With the tools you gave in hand,
Here and now I make my stand
Forgive me for not growing strong
Enough in time to right your wrongs
But it will not happen twice!

Let them know our pain
Let the chaos rain
From the heavens above
As they say, in war and love
Everything is fair
If I must cross this line
I’ll stand up for what’s mine
Now there’s no turning back
As the scene cuts to black,
Fading into dead air

Dear Unsealers,

Below you will find an attempt at wording the way grief slowed my heart in 2022. Two of my male cousins (sons of each of my mother’s sisters) passed 65 days apart from one another. Their spirits continue to inspire me to rise above and push forward with every day. I outlived both of them this year. Raw emotion has been the extent of coherent writing I could come up with. The rest has only been able to formulate through dreaming. Thank you for reading:

Where do I begin?
I’ve laughed a lot of it to the side; I’ve become hallowed to some of it, and the rest just lies right underneath the surface.
 
Underneath my tired, malfunctioning, fragile brain, I begin wrapping up my thoughts, since I just almost doze off because that’s what happens when I get deep, introspective, or reflective; my psyche overthinks and overheats, then shuts down. I’ve been wanting to write a poem, but this happens. It’s like ever since my cousin died, writer’s block has clogged my ability to speak, let alone breathe. It’s like I’m losing a game of being choked out, and sometimes I don’t want to tap out ‘cause the bruises never fade [cuz… the bruises never fade].
 
Instead, I’m back in the simulation of quote-unquote reality, facing this day-to-day, stumbling all throughout, like, “What can i-i-i help you with today?”
…
Maybe all my poems start with questions… or they have to be written when I’m pressed against the wall, so my thoughts just get to spilling, and when I’m asked how I’m feeling, really all I want to do is (exhale), because it makes me feel so small to carry on with all this damage.
 
 
I’m revisiting this poem for the third time ‘cause the last time I tried to get through it, another one of my cousins died, and his name is M, and I rep them boys proudly. It’s V and M ‘til the day I see cloudy.
 
I’m still not understanding how one day we can be standing together, and the next I’m faceplantin’ talking memories we were planning to the graves they’ve been planted in. *umh* Where do I go from here?
…
I’m even further away from writing my first love poem. Well, in this state, loss love underlies sadness, and in moments coupled with lack thereof, it can feel like a heart of attacks. The type that boils over, no explosion.
 
You know they say, “You don’t really start living until you’re 25,” and when I think of my heavenly halves, I’d argue that saying is a living lie.

You are the run-on sentence
English has taught me not to use.
The Punctuation with red lines of knowledge
as I fail to convey thoughts of expression.
And yet, I recall the Afro-Fusion in your tone,
the fineness in your smile exiled from Black Culture.
The admiration of the necessary things, like catching
each syllable like butterflies in my stomach, when you
reach a unique journey that shifts you into my favorite Icon.

Even now your observations are penned to memory,
ultimately growing to term like my daughter
being born from the love you gave me.
Each lesson is a precise section that supports
and conclude your life’s purpose.

Your thoughts live on through every misspelled
word in my chapter of being as you watch over me, circling
and underlining my faults. Somehow still levitating your
suggestions in marginal explanations of my highest lows and
my deepest concerns of my soul.

You are the warmest period I’ve seen
in the English language. Always about the rules
of storytelling and yet basically used your criteria
for this kind of short story. Your creativity is the reason my
masterpiece for poetry is written like a master manuscript.
Every detailed piece included reading within a hero’s
pilgrimage. This is the message you gave how to approach
my failures and yet never give up on my story.

Lil Bro,

I constantly think of you and apologize. I don’t feel liable; I just don’t know how to accept my lack of knowledge. ‘I’m sorry,’ my heart whispers, ‘because I never realized there would be a day when you weren’t here.’

Your birthday passed last month. Someone signed their name on a document at work and scribbled your birthday on the next line, just a date in June. But I heard your childhood voice in my head repeating the date with pride. It was your very own special day. I could hear the way you stress the long ‘u’ sound in our AAE dialect from home. The memory shattered any composure I had left.

My sobs were silent but insuppressible. I sat at my desk as tears rushed over my face. I didn’t want attention, but I’m sure my manager noticed me wiping my eyes continuously.

I always thought I would share this time with you, optimistically wrestling to become the adults we always wanted to be. I thought we would gossip and laugh over the years. I thought we would grow and learn from each other. I was an adult when you left, but losing you makes me feel as feeble and naive as a child. I never understood that your illness could be fatal. I never thought the procedure could be dangerous. I never imagined my life without knowing you. But here we are, and all three of those things are unrelentingly real. ‘I miss you. I’ve needed you all this time.’

As I looked at the document, it was unbelievable to me that you would have turned 29 years old that day. It had been seven years without you, and a part of me loathed that so much time had passed. It reminded me of all the changes since you’ve gone. How can so much have changed when it feels like just yesterday that you were here?

How do I forgive myself for my oblivious nescience all our lives? Why didn’t I realize the depth of your suffering? Why couldn’t you make it clearer to me? Why didn’t I have the words or the vocabulary to verbalize your experience? Why didn’t my mother explain what was going on with my brother? Why couldn’t I fully sympathize? ‘I’m sorry,’ my soul screams.

There’s a young guy who works with me at my job. He’s not a lot like you, but in ways, he reminds me of you and Bee when we were kids. He doesn’t always understand me when I mumble in our dialect, but we use AAE and it feels like home.

He’s not bothersome like you were toward me, but I know you annoyed me because I was your big sister. I was yours, and my attention belonged to you. He would also never be as insulting as you. In the moment your insults are insufferable, but now it’s something I miss the most. You would always come to our defense if anyone ever put us down. He’s not moody like you used to be from time to time. You and I share a certain level of disdain for obnoxious social interactions. But now I wonder if some of your moods were because of your pain…

Of course, my coworker is not you, but he makes me think of you every day. He listens to the music you’d like to hear, and he likes some clothes you’d probably wear.

He also looks at me the way you and Bee do when I do something cool, like the smartest big sister in the world.

I’m the nerdy one, the studious sister. I’m blind sometimes to the things you’re engrossed in. But you and Bee look up to me. You’re proud of me for getting good grades and graduating college. You’re proud of me for traveling the world and learning new languages. You’d probably commend me today if you saw the program I built in Excel for work using complex formulas and macro automation. My coworker loves it.

I wish you were here to see it too, to visit me and see the city, to listen to my goals and dreams. And I would encourage you in yours.

But even if you’re not here, I will live with all my heart like you are. I won’t only be the sister you needed, but I will be a sister to anyone who needs it.

We were together from the beginning, and you always believed in me. You were my first fan. You never judged me or wanted me to change. You always welcomed me with a hug and a smile. To anyone in my life, I will encourage, support, and strengthen them like a true sister should. Thank you for being my childhood little brother.

Dear Niece,

A mother’s gain, an aunt’s loss is what I experienced having you in my life and losing you. You became my third but oldest child. Having you in my household was so fulfilling to my soul. To see you smile and the gloom and fear in your eyes disappear was everything. I could feel the burden of your spirit lift off you, as I consumed it and carried it. I wanted to fulfill your desires to live with me permanently but I had been denied the opportunity. The sadness and depression I had when taking you home after the summer you spent with me, had not even scratched the surface of the pain I felt, losing you forever. Your passing taught me how to call on Jesus and TRUST in GOD when I have nothing left inside of me to grasp, to survive. To stay sane, I have accredited so many things to you in your passing as positive changes in my life.

Your organ donations impacted the lives of 6 people; which inspired me to make a difference in this world. Your one body gave way to 6 lives, to live and not die, to be able to be healthy or healed. You leaving at the tender age of 14 taught me TO LIVE NOW, because life had ended for you before it even truly began. So, two months after your passing I officially moved to the Coast. It was a profound moment because I had told you on our visit here, that I would bring you with me if I ever moved. Well baby I didn’t get to bring you physically but I have you in my heart, I have your school artwork hung up in my home, and the flower I was given at your funeral is still living, that gives me joy.

I wonder where you’d be and what you’d be doing, often I answer, “She would be doing EVERYTHING!” that inspires me to continue to keep pushing, keep fulfilling my dreams, take in the moment, and never take life for granted; never think there is always time because the loss of you taught me time is truly of the essence. I can feel your presence at times and I pray that you are proud that I chose to give it to God, the anger, the hurt, the guilt, the grief, and all that surrounded taking that loss not from the natural but by the hands of a 15-year-old. Life hadn’t prepared me beforehand but yet on the spot to FORGIVE QUICKLY! Hatred can destroy the good in people and I knew the good in you would have prevailed. It was too painful to process a child I love, taking the life of a child I love but that taught me how to GIVE IT TO GOD, vengeance is not mine. Love conquers a multitude of things and the love you gave me, I shared it in the moments that needed mending.

Even in loving your mom through it all and until the end, I discovered the true meaning of God’s grace and mercy and how sufficient it truly is. So thank you my sweet niece for teaching me about life within your short life. Your memories and everything I can imagine you would have become, I will become because you were simply amazing. Your mom told me after you passed, that you once told her, “She’s not my cousin, my aunt but MY MOM” and that if she would take your clothes to my house and place them on the porch, I’d know you were coming home. I wish that could be so but God needed you back. But, no matter the distance, from Earth to the highest Heaven, your spirit will always be home within my soul.

I’m a big guy,
But his hand swallowed mine whole
As he greeted me when we first met.
I would end up marrying his little sister.
As an only child,
I was thrilled to be part of a larger family,
Even if one of my brothers-in-law
Could crush me like a grape.
He was a mountain of a man
With a booming voice
And a hearty laugh.
A gentle giant living alone.
Never married.
Never dated much.
He certainly had friends,
But his family knew he wanted more.
A special someone
To ease his loneliness.
Not that I’m all that special,
But I should have done more with him,
As family and a friend.
Correction, anything with him.
I never reached out.
We were close to the same age.
I am sure we could have found common ground.
As I ruminate to the point of distraction,
My wife throws me a lifeline.
She mentions my career, children, friends, hobbies.
Although I had no time for her brother,
She suggests I wasn’t a bad guy.
Just busy.
She’s so sweet.
I’m fortunate she loves me.
I pretend to buy her argument
And return to my rumination.
When he got sick,
I finally did reach out
And took him to some of his appointments.
The doctors gave him time,
But they couldn’t give him health.
And then, poof!
He was gone.
Just like that,
Never to return.
Like a bad magic trick where the playing card,
Torn to pieces by the magician,
Never reappears whole again.
My brother-in-law left behind
Memories I consider incomplete,
For they should be more abundant and eventful.
Like the time we should have gone bowling,
Or to the movies,
Or just hung out together.
I’m grateful he left me something.
A lesson.
To reach out.
To connect.
To make memories.
To be a better friend.

I’m suddenly aware of frigid air;
A chill to my very core.
It’s only been a few months,
I miss you mom.
This is a cold I’ve never felt before,
Rising up behind me-
…. the air is compelling.
It shines, the air is in my sight.

Aunt Lisa, you taught me-
To see differently, to be different.
You two showed me the beauty of I…
Grandma, two decades since you were here.
I can feel your smile and smell Gardenia.
In your bed mom,
time itself stopped.
I cannot sit here much longer.
I scrub the bathtub,
I’ve always hated wet hair.
Yet I saw an orange strand or two,
I set them aside,
As the unfamiliar air continued to rise.
Rise above expectations-
Rise above the concept of perfection.
This air is so refreshing,
Cold breeze in a hot and muggy night.
I can feel the support,
A love more than unconditional.
Unbreakable, unshakeable.
An unfamiliar & unwavering support.
Personal- I feel the tears
They fall as I write,
So, as long as there’s fresh air,
I will continue to rise.

Mom, it’s been seventy days,
Since you took yourself away.
I feel my lost idols,
In my heart and around my neck.
Heaven sent pearls-
Of beauty and wisdom adorn me.
I watch the irredescent bubbles,
The heat of the water,
Contrast of cold air.
Mom I’ll honor your words,
I shan’t give into despair.

– Hillary Rosenthal