When my brother Calvin died he left me a voicemail on my cellphone. For the life of me I can’t remember what he said. I’ve changed cellphone carriers at least three times and sometime during the change I lost the message. I’d give my right middle toe to hear it just once more. At the time of his death I wasn’t talking to him and we hadn’t spoken in a while. I was angry with him for something so important that I can not remember exactly what it was. I was probably unhappy with some life decision that he made. I swear I wish he could meet the new me. I’ve changed for the better, live and let live and all that jazz.
A while ago I wrote a poem where I tell another one of my brothers, Norman, that he’s dead to me. Harsh words I know…but in the poem I tell him how I’m preparing my heart for the phone call that I don’t want to ever come. So basically I kill him off figuratively now so as to not have to deal with the pain of the day that I pray never comes.
Today I got a call from my sister in NJ’s phone number and I let it go to voicemail. I’m not ready for that phone call. Thankfully this wasn’t that phone call but as black mothers, sisters, aunties, and cousins when do we ever get the luxury of not having to worry about that god forsaken phone call? Just in case; my brother did say “Hello” on my voicemail and I’ve saved it to my Dropbox. A girl can never be too prepared for those days we wish never come to past.
Originally Posted as a page on 9/22/14