Here’s a short unedited bit from the book I am writing. I’d love to read your comments.

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You can’t stop the night. That’s why it hurts me to know that you are facing a similar night season. I don’t know if I ever asked God to protect future generations from the same flavor of yucky hurt that my sisters and I endured. I know that my soul cried out for just that. I know that this, was part my unspoken prayers that flow from my heart to the ears of my God. The prayers that I could not have known to pray but surely my soul begged God for the avoidance of this moment. Surely the little warrior princess that I was… arrested by worry, sick with grief, shocked by abandonment. Thoughts that one of the regents of my household would return, because like you my little one, I was not ready. My tiny hands had not matured to the point where I could fight adult wars. My arms ached as I held up the weight of the infant body they embraced. Your mother, fragile, clueless, vulnerable. …

Soul. We can’t. Love him anymore.

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Your love was sunshine.

It was cruel. Unintentionally.


Innocent. Embodiment. Of Everything.

And every time, a song, becomes an ode to you.

How long?

Someone knock you out of that damn ivory tower!

It’s a biblical term, look it up. Comment on the title if you’d like, but this is about me. I recently turned thirty something. While reflecting with a friend at the close of that day, on the anniversary of my birth, I realized that I was grateful. My birthday, a national holiday in my mind, is always filled with ceremonies to mark my triumphant entry into the western hemisphere. I was born. I smile on that day. I pamper myself. It’s very meaningful. But recently, what meant the most on that day, was the ability to breathe…in and out. I was cognizant too. No pain. Bills. Goals. Sunlight. Sounds. Pavement. A manicure. Air.


Zaharah McKinney

Writer Activist. Introspection. I am writing a book. Learn about it at

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