Eight years ago, my grandfather, the one who stepped in when my own father split before I was even one, passed away due to complications from a hip replacement.
I received the call in the middle of the night. A call that would jolt me from my sleep. He had taken a turn for the worse. There was blood. They didn't know the source. I hung up and called my mother and brother. Instead of leaving for the hospital, I waited for them. It took them about 25 minutes to get to me and the hospital was another 20 minutes away. I got a second call - the call - as we were around the corner from the hospital saying he was gone.
Around the corner. Had I gone alone, I would have made it to him.
I regret waiting. I regret that he died alone.
I should have left immediately.
Last night I slept fitfully as dreams interfered with rest. Accusatory voices echoed in my head: "You were too late. You didn't make it. You left me to die alone."
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I cried in church this morning when we sang the words, "All my life I have been called unworthy, named by the voice of my shame and regret. But when I hear You whisper, child lift up your head..."
And I came home and cried until I almost threw up. Or blacked out. I think both. I wanted to break shit and watch all of the pieces fall and scatter. Scatter like the pieces of me. I cried for what was lost eight years ago. For the father who abandoned me. For what my step father took from me. And for what was lost this week in Charleston. And for all of the brokenness. For all of those who hurt today. It welled up from the very depths of my being and broke free, like a dam whose force could not be contained. And it was ugly and raw. It was truth.
A choice. I can stay here in this tortured space haunted by the ghosts of my past, or I can move.
And life is always moving. So, I move, too, even if I protest.
I am not who I used to be. And I hope that I am not too late.