The Encounter

It’s raining at my parent’s graveside funeral. The sky is dark, and my heart can relate to the state of the weather. The pitter-patter of the raindrops pounding the crowd of black umbrellas matched the pulse of my Aunt’s wrist. My cold fingers were wrapped around her wrist in an attempt to comfort her. She’s trembling from the wind whipping past our faces, and the tears that I’ve been streaming from her puffy, red eyes since we were in the limo. She hides her eyes with big black shades, as if they were there to hide her sorrow, and cover her tears from rays of pain. I’ve never been to a funeral before, and I didn’t think I would have to attend a double funeral, let alone my own parents.

My Mom and Dad committed suicide on Thanksgiving day. I guess they felt like they didn’t have much to be grateful for. Not even me. The night replays so vividly in my head, that I’ve been afraid to sleep through the night. The death of my parents, the way they died, has become my worst nightmare. I could only imagine what was waiting, lurking on the other side of my restfulness. My Mom had beautiful caramel skin that glistened naturally. She didn’t wear makeup a day in her life. She knew that her food, water, and having a peaceful life made her face. I watched as the candle in the middle of our small dinner table flickered in front of her. Oh, how I wish I looked like her. I turned to my left to see my dad gazing at her beauty as I was. My dad was an adonis himself. His skin looked as though he was an Italian man with a bone structure that made me believe if God was real, she’d be a woman. It’s been the three of us since I could remember. I have never met any of my family members. My parents were very transparent with me as to why I could not. My grandparents did not approve of their relationship. My Dad’s parents raised him to be racist towards black people. He never did follow his parent’s teachings, and he knew he struck gold when he met mama in college. One Thanksgiving, my Dad took mama with him to break bread with his family. She couldn’t go home to her family because my Grandad said she was not to bring a white man in his home, and that if she stayed with him she could forget about ever coming back. Without announcement, my parents walked into the dining room in my Dad’s small house on a hill. I can hear the quiver in my Dad’s voice while telling me, “Every pale face at that wooden table was beat red.” They never did eat Thanksgiving dinner that year. The last Thanksgiving we all had together was the day they died. I woke up to my parents side by side in the queen-sized bed, smiling. In between them laid an empty bottle of pills. I touched my parents' ice cold faces, and wept over their bodies.

My Aunt had no desire to take care of me, so I’ve found myself here at a foster home. Everything here is perfect. Almost too perfect. From what I hear through the hallways, the parents are nice. I’ve been here for a year, and He and She have been trying to get me out of my room outside of school. I remember when they welcomed me with open arms into their home. It’s just ever since mama and daddy died, I haven’t spoken a word. It’s been over a year since they passed, and today is my birthday. He and She knocked silently on my door and sang happy birthday to me.

“We have a vanilla cupcake with whipped icing for you outside of the door,” He said.

Then there was a pause.

She whispered, “We got you a journal. I know you don’t like to talk much, or even at all, but we thought you may like to write.” I heard her sniffle lightly, and the footsteps of the parents walking away from my door.

I cracked open the door and quickly grabbed my cupcake and the journal, when I heard something fall and roll under my bed. I easily spotted the silver pen and crawled over to get it. The pen was beautiful. I gazed at it as my name written in cursive “Parker” gazed back at me. I looked at the journal as it laid on my floor and thought it had no comparison to the pen. It didn’t have as much character. It was a plain black journal with crisp white pages on the inside. On the first page, it says, “This book belongs to..” I twisted the bottom of the pen and wrote my name in bold letters. I began to write what I could not verbally put into words:

Sanctuary

Peace be still within me

Chaos glides furiously throughout me

To be alone in a house of cards

Peace be still within me

Fire whistles around me

Quiet now

Peace be still within me

That felt really good! I smiled at “my” words written in “my” journal and wondered what my parents would think of me becoming a poet. I could perform for them, only them. I’m not sure if anyone else would understand my words, but I do. It feels good to finally know and see my inner thoughts somewhere else but inside my crowded mind. I added to the bottom of the page “Happy 16th birthday to me.”

I woke up from my sleep and checked the clock. It’s 3am and the voices were more intense, more furious this time. I wiped the sweat beads from my forehead as I gasped for dear life. My shirt was clinging to my body from fighting whatever it was that decided to mess with me tonight. There was a voice. A deep voice whispered to me from ear to ear, that the death of my parents was my fault.

“They didn’t love you.”

“They would still be here.”

“It’s all your fault.”

It repeated these three lines like a hook to a song I never want to hear again. I would pray, I should pray. I hear the parents talk about God and they invite me to church every Sunday, but I just don’t know if I believe per se. In fear of going back to sleep, I did all I’ve been knowing how to do for the past week.

Write. Through hot tears coating my face, I found myself on my knees saying

“Help me, please.” I knew some greater power had to hear me. The moon, the stars, Buddha, God. I didn’t care. Whatever and whoever caused the sun to rise and set, I needed it to help me rise. I grabbed my journal from my nightstand and sat at the edge of my bed. I didn’t notice how bad I was shaking until I realized I wouldn’t be able to write with my journal on my lap if I did not relax. I took a deep breath as my inner thoughts took over me:

Scream

No one understands

Cry, don’t cut

No one hears me

Fight, please don’t cut

I just wanna hurt someone

Write, don’t cut

I’m spiraling out of control

Dance, don’t cut

God’s not listening

Pray, please don’t cut

I just want to scream

Scream, but please, don’t cut

I threw my journal to the side, knocking my square digital clock onto the floor, and screamed. As loud as I could. I heard her come knocking at the door, frantic. He followed, jiggling the doorknob. Then, I heard a voice.

“Quiet.” Everything became still. The parents walked away from my door. The voice was nothing like the one I heard just ten minutes ago. This voice was calm, but firm. A voice of loving authority. In my heart, I knew.

“It can’t be.”

“It is so.”

“But God is not real.”

“I am He.”

Chills ran up every vertebrae in my spine. He spoke again.

“Open the window.”

I quickly ran over to my window and opened it up with ease. My white curtains flew up to the ceiling of my room. They looked as if they could be ghosts.

“Close it,” God said.

I slammed the window and my curtains fell back to normal. I no longer felt bound to my room, or the voices that haunted me that night. It all flew out of the window. My ears were wide open to hear any other instruction from...God. I wanted to write down whatever He had to say. This moment could not go undocumented. In the midst of me searching frantically for my journal, I heard Him speak again.

“Proverbs 3:24.”

I had no idea what it meant, but I quickly wrote that onto my white dresser with a black permanent marker. I felt an overwhelming peace come over me, one that I’ve never felt. I crawled into bed that night and slept like a newborn baby.

I went to church that Sunday.

3 years later

“I’m going to miss you so much. You make it your business to come back and visit us.”

“Ah. I’m sure she’s had enough of us, don’t you think Beth?” Danny, my foster dad retorted as he gave me a wink.

We were standing in front of the place I called home since my parents had died. I was leaving to move five miles away to my community college apartments. My foster mother was being a bit dramatic. At this moment, I became grateful to have gotten the opportunity to know how truly amazing He and She, Danny and Elizabeth, really are. They didn’t have to take in a broken 15 year old girl. They were a couple in their early thirties just finding their way, but they saw me.

I hugged and kissed them goodbye and rubbed Elizabeth’s stomach. She was pregnant with her firstborn. My little brother.

I got into my white Toyota Camry, and before I could make it to the end of the road, my phone rang. This has to be Dan or Elizabeth.

“Yes, I remembered to pack my toothbrush,” I chuckled.

“Ms.Parker?”

Oops.

“This is she. May I ask who’s speaking?”

“It’s Mary, from Just Write Publishing. Is this a good time?”

My heart began to pound.

“Yes.”

“Good! I have great news to tell you. My boss is willing to offer you $20,000 upfront for your poetry book. We think this will be big for our company.”

“Oh my..”

“How soon can you stop by our office? We want to get on this. You haven’t been talking to any other companies, have you?”

“No, no ma’am, not at all.”

“Awesome! Is there any chance you can come by today or tomorrow?”

“I can be there in 20 minutes.”

“Perfect see you soon,” Mary said with a smile in her voice.

Happy tears coated my eyes. That conversation seemed like a dream.

“God is real.”