"we fell in love the way you fall in leaves."
Juwan "Rocky" Rockwell has had a pretty hard life. Between trying to find a way to fend for himself and dealing with the normal hardships of teenage angst, he had nowhere to turn as an adolescent and no...
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"lakes"
I arrived to the venue in which my mother's birthday party was being held, clad in a dark evening gown. The venue was something like a country club, sitting adjacent to a lake and the abundance of greenery that surrounded it. The party itself was being held in the ballroom, which was spacious and grand and filled with not only her colleagues but the various friends she'd picked up through life.
There were so many of them, and every single one of them loved her.
It all seemed so glamorous. Not the crystal chandeliers or the chocolate fountain or the open bar. Not the dance floor with a sleek finish or the varying scents of expensive cologne and money. No, that wasn't what was glamorous.
It was the fact that there were so many smiles and hugs. So many compliments. So many instances of reminiscing. So much authenticity in the guests' words about my mother and in their interactions with her.
I could only dream of having this many people love me, let alone like me. I was happy that my mother was so highly regarded.
I was happy that no one else got to experience the feelings of incompetence and insecurity that she brought upon me in my youth. I was happy that no one thought she was some cold-hearted bitch. I was happy that even someone that I thought the absolute worst of sometimes— the person I went all the way to New York to get away from could still have so many loved ones.
Maybe there was hope for me too.
I stood, conversing with one of my mother's old childhood friends. She was telling me about how no-nonsense my mother had always been, laughing at the little stories she'd throw in. I joined in on her moments of laughter before my eyes landed on someone way on the opposite side of the ballroom.
There he was: tall, slim, caramel. The suit was navy. His braids were freshly done, which was evident with a crisp cut hairline and how precise his hair was parted every which way. His skin was still smooth. His smile was still perfect. I admired the jewelry he had on from a far, loving the way gold melted onto his skin, wrapping around his fingers just as I had every time I so much as glanced at him.
His big brown eyes drifted away from the person he was holding a conversation with, and I took that as my cue to glance away from him. I returned my eyes to the woman who stood before me and tuned back in to what she was saying.
Shortly afterwards, she caught sight of someone she knew and excused herself from me. While she quickly walked off, calling out to whoever she saw, I was left to continue watching people laugh and socialize. I found myself growing jealous.
These people can talk about anything in the world, not matter how small. Meanwhile, I was standing in a corner, longing to speak but failing to find the words— failing to pull myself up and find someone to give my words to— failing at not feeling alone in a room full of people.
