A Portrait Of A Black Man In A Mid-Life Crisis.
There are no how-to books and few examples for black men on how we are supposed to age gracefully in America, so we go at it alone.
I am adrift right now. I oscillate between moments of extreme heaviness when movement seems impossible and bouts of weightlessness when I am untethered to the realities of life.
My preteen daughter is my familiar. She is my immutable connection to this mortal plane. She is my north star, guiding me through the fog of my emotions. Her smile is my compass, and her voice is my lighthouse. I am cognizant of how unfair it might be for a preteen child to be used as an anchor to ground me and help me determine what is important. The answer is always her. She is what is important.
Nonetheless, my desire to rebel is strong. It is only tempered by my age.
I am burdened with fantasies of grand purpose while constrained by my mortality. A legacy that does not amount to much of anything unless I die today, which I have no plans on doing.
Afflicted with hubris, I ponder who would attend my funeral and what they would say. For the first time in my life, my death is on my mind. Each day brings me closer to my inescapable demise.
