The letter peeked at me, stuck in between bills and grocery store ads. It’s amazing how we know exactly what needs to be done at times without any words being spoken. I had been ignoring the situation of my son’s father’s absence from his life. I hadn’t had any contact with this man for almost three years. No phone calls, no calls from any of his family—it was as if we never existed in each other’s lives. This was fine for me. After years of fighting off any sign of love, I had gotten pretty comfortable with being alone. It wasn’t until my son’s brown eyes pierced into mine and said, “Momma do I have a daddy?” The words hit straight to my core, causing tears to instantly well up in my eyes.
I would answer him that God was his father, and that was the best dad he could ever have had. I mean it’s true, you know? Even still, that truth did not take away my son’s insecurity, his fear, his anger, his emptiness in not having a male reflection to look to as a physical example. I had convinced myself that I was strong, that I didn’t care, that I was just young at the time and full of lust. The truth was that a part of me still loved the distant stranger; in fact, it had always loved him. A part of me needed him, wanted him to love me, but was too afraid to be vulnerable enough to say it. Instead, I pushed him away. I told him I didn’t need him, that I never loved him. And he grew distant, further, until one day he completely disappeared.
I buried all of my feelings with his memory, and had been living life not thinking about him much, and then one day when I least expected it, I was confronted with the feelings that I had forced into my subconscious. The letter was simple, explaining that he was in prison on a gun charge and he wanted me to bring our son to visit him.
“I love you, Queen. I’ve always loved you.”
I hadn’t heard those words for him in years. A rush of emotions hit me all at once. Initially pride, followed by anger, and then immense sorrow. Somehow my love always seemed to be dead or in prison. What was I missing? What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I seem to nourish love to fruition? My thoughts were broken by a sweet little voice: “Momma, what’s for dinner?” Baby Kenya’s beautiful round face innocently inquired. My focus was back on what was important, what was in front of me. I could still protect him; he was proof that my love was not insufficient but alive and thriving. I stashed the letter into a drawer. I wasn’t ready to face that truth.
Truth. There she was again. Her hand and voice gently prompting me until her patience ran thin. When she reached the end of her rope, she would present herself boldly in the quiet times of my life. I was so angry at this stranger. I mean, he left me alone to be a mother and a father. Or was I angry with myself? That I chose to conceive a child in such an irresponsible and reckless way, and was stuck with the consequences? Like so many things in my past, I wanted badly to redo that part of my story. This was a part that I could not control, I couldn’t fix. The repercussions not only affected me, but my child. Baby Kenya had no say in the matter; my choice disrupted his life.
Life is interesting. In retrospect, I tried to solve the pain of Kenya’s murder by filling the empty space with a stranger. Conceived a child and tried to name him after love lost. Manipulation. I wasn’t very good at fixing problems. Every time I tried to cover it up or fix it, I ended up making my situation worse. I couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t rename it, I had to admit it was broken, admit I was at fault. I had to learn to let it be. There was freedom in that. Saying, “I’m broke, this is broken, and there is nothing I can do about it.” I decided to fill out the visiting forms and wrote the stranger letting him know I would bring his son, whom I named after my love lost, to visit him in prison. I decided to set him free, so I could fly again. I finally decided to forgive my stranger, my Champion, my Hasan, my love lost. I decided to forgive them all and to finally let it all go. It was time to release myself from the prison of my memories of the past. It was time to reign as Queen.