Right now, I’m playing with my baby cousin. Runique is two years old. We’re tossing this rainbow beach ball. The one with bright colors that orange peel slice the surface. We’re passing it back and forth. I can tell mobility in her legs is still something she is getting used to. Knees so new and limber. It feels like she is trying to bounce out of em’. Blast off. Take flight. She is learning how to be in this body she was born with. This body she is growing into. And at 24 years old, so am I. I hover near her with care to make sure she doesn’t fall over and hurt herself in this exploration. In her expansion.
As we’re playing, my dad - who is 55 years old - is laying in the living room in a twin-sized hospital bed with rails. They prevent him from hurting himself when he has his seizures. He’s in the type of bed you might have had when you were a kid. The one that keeps you from falling. At this point, his brain isn’t telling the rest of his body that he is hungry or thirsty anymore. Sometimes it forgets to tell the rest of his body how to walk. Maybe his body is busy with other matters. I guess this is growing, too.
It’s wild to think about how we all start off so small. So new. Like Runique. Learning in every moment how to do everything. And it feels like there is infinite potential for who we can become and where we can go. And then this thing called life happens, and we change and experience so much so quickly.
And suddenly the child you fed is now feeding you. And you can’t drink safely without a straw. And the friends you used to roll with everyday - living keepers of your archives - who you haven’t seen in 20 years are by your bedside reminiscing on all the moments and memories you’ve shared together. The R&B classics that Jerry Curl dripped with sweetness in that 1970's yellow Chevy Vega Hatchback. And that phaaat crush you had on Terry Winters. And that time you ran from a racist dude in LA with a machete and cleared that fence like Mike. And you're laughing more than you have in a decade.
And you’re confused on why you’re in a hospital bed in your sister's house and why everybody seems so worried. And you keep telling everyone you’re fine, and you’re not too sure if you’re talking to them or you’re talking to yourself. Reassuring that fear swelling in your throat - that pressure growing in your head - that everything is going to be fine. And everybody is suddenly talking about God more than they ever have and you still don’t like praying with everyone but you’ll tolerate it to keep your moms happy. And you can’t help but wonder who God is anyway. And you can't help but wonder if you’re close to meeting them.