The 5 Stages

Life was too much for him. I understood that. In only a few short years, he’d lost his wife to cancer, his job to a millennial, his house to foreclosure, and worst – his dignity. Most evenings after work, I’d meet him at his favorite bar. He’d already have his Crown on the rocks and a Miller Lite by the time I arrived. I’d have a margarita usually, from the frozen machine. It wasn’t the kind of bar from which to expect a salt-rimmed beverage in a fancy glass. On Tuesdays, we’d have dollar tacos. Fridays, catfish. Most other days, fried chicken wings with French fries.

Everything reminded me of him. Old school R&B songs. Tyler Perry movies. The Green Bay Packers. The Sasha Fierce side of Beyonce’s double album “I am Sasha Fierce,” because it was playing in my car that day. Dart boards. Black Chrysler 300s. The name David. All triggers. It had only been a few days, but I was completely lost without him.

I was pummeling ahead through the stages of grief. Never mind the order. I started at acceptance but quickly arrived at anger. I understood his suffering because I saw it with my own eyes – that was the acceptance part. I didn’t understand his decision to leave me, voluntarily. That was the part that made me angry. I would’ve assumed that I was enough to keep him. I tried best I could. I went straight to the bar every evening after work to meet him. I paid for our bar tabs and dart games. I let him win when he was too drunk. I cooked him dinner and tried to make him laugh. But as time went by, my efforts became futile.

A few months prior, I had written him a letter and mailed it even though driving to his apartment and talking to him would have taken less time and effort. I didn’t have the courage to say those things to him directly without welling up with tears. But there were things I wanted him to know. I told him I loved him and was concerned about him. I wanted to help him get back on his feet and needed him to tell me what I could do. That I had his back and just wanted him to be happy. He didn’t write me back, nor did he acknowledge receipt of the letter until I asked. And that conversation was brief. It went like this:

“Hey, did you get my letter?”

“Yeah, I got your letter, girl.”

“What did you think?”

“It was nice.”

“Are you going to write me back?”

“Nah.”

I wasn’t entirely surprised by that. He was a man of few words. He signed my birthday cards with the same signature he used on his checks, which, by the way, didn’t resemble his actual name at all. It just looked like a string of lowercase, cursive e’s. I’ve never seen any person sign birthday cards this way, but I came to appreciate it.

I don’t think I could ever fully grasp the depth of what he had gone through in his life as a Black man, of course not being a man myself. But I could see pain. Sometimes it was hidden behind his smile or overshadowed by the distractions of everyday life, but other times and mostly when he was drinking, it was evident. He would talk about two things: how much he despised the people at his old job and how much he loved me. “They wouldn’t know good if it smacked ‘em in the face … they fire me after 27 years?” He’d spend a few minutes cursing them out. “But I love you, girl,” he’d say. “You’re all I got.” And then he’d drift off to somewhere in his head that I couldn’t follow.

I wondered why I wasn’t enough to keep him here. Why he didn’t call to tell me it had gotten that bad. I suppose this was the bargaining stage.

I spent all my savings and a few hundred from a payday loan to cover the funeral. $4,126.81. Hundreds of people came with condolences. But none whose sorrow reached the depth of mine. He was laid to rest in his favorite suit. A charcoal Stacy Adams with mustard pinstripes, a mustard shirt and tie. I had provided his t-shirt, underwear and socks as well. Apparently, the dead don’t require shoes. I’d found a pants suit for myself and a sleeveless mustard halter with a ruffled collar to wear underneath because I wanted to dress like him.

That evening after the funeral, there was no better place for me to be than at the bar. In the same spot as usual but this time next to an empty chair. The Crown on the rocks was for me. The chicken wings and fries that I ordered were more from routine than hunger. I drank more than I ate, and I thought about how I’d go on without him. The depression stage was setting in.

I took a Lyft home and decided to check my mailbox since it had been a few days. It was mostly junk that I tucked underneath my arm on my way up to my 2nd floor apartment. I took my time settling in. I flipped off my shoes, sat my stuff down on the dining room table and went to the bathroom to remove my makeup. I took off my suit jacket before sitting down on my couch to sift through the mail. I recycled most of it, then found myself staring at a manila envelope like it was a ghost. It was addressed to me. It was his handwriting. There was no return information.

I couldn’t open it fast enough. I yanked a long tear across the top and pulled out a small, black, leather notebook. It looked old and kept but also unused. It was smaller than a hardcover novel but bigger than a pocketbook. I released the belt that wrapped tightly around, holding the little book closed. I opened to the first page. It was empty and so were several pages after. I picked the package up from the floor, looking for something else, but it was also empty. Confused, I started fanning the pages with my thumb and finally, they halted at the middle of the book. Simultaneously, something fell out as I saw writing on the page. It read:

“I finally wrote you back, girl. You were the best daughter I could have asked for. But I was ready to go and I need you to understand that. I am so proud of you. You’re all I got so I want you to get all I have. This is my life savings. I know I doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m gone, but I hope it helps.”

A check for $20,000 had fallen out. I smiled at his lowercase, cursive e’s.

But it wasn’t the money that brought me to my knees. It was the way he ended the note on the page. A proper greeting card signature that I’d waited 25 years to see. He finally signed:

“Love, Dad.”