I'm Not Sure What Else To Do Right Now...Write

"I expected your death like the passing of a scheduled school bus." This line ended a high school friend of mine's poem. I taught this poem on Thursday. My cousin will technically be dead in three hours. Car accident. Brain dead. Scheduled plug pull.

My first thought was his face at Ham's a month ago and the words, "Love you" after we hugged and said our hello's. We have led totally different lives since age six when my mother died. He goes to jail when I go to class. We are simply different, and I will not judge him for this.

My family functions in the same manner as the mob. We join at times of revolt and sadness—every couple of years someone dies. This means the theories about 2012 will come true after all [thank you, nostradamus, but i could have told you that myself].

After the sadness has passed, I now feel anger. I am angry because of the recklessness of my mama, my grandeddy (on the mob side), and my cousin. I am angry because this now will double the fear that ails me every night of my life.

I am finished talking about this. I am finished thinking about this. I want to write because something good always grows from the sadness of death [maybe this is god's way. i hope. i so hope.]. This death has finally made me realize the significance of mine and my father's relationship.

I was always jealous of my college roommate's relationship with her father. They spoke everyday, and he raised her. My father did not raise me—my grandmother and grandfather did. I now know that this gap in our relationship means nothing more than shit. The first person I called when I heard of this recent death was my father. I regurgitated the information to him over the phone. I told him I was painting my room. We hung up. Ten minutes later, I called him back—crying.

"Deddy, what do I do? I'm just so exhausted from death. I'm just tired. I'm just tired of that call. I'm so tired of that call," I said as I sat Indian style on the piles of clothing in the laundry room floor.

Through sniffles and the holding back of tears, he said, "You paint, Mariah. You live—and you paint."

At this moment, I discovered that our relationship is no better or worse than anyone else's—it's just different. I now know that we are connected at all times by a knot. Death's knot. Death is a son-of-a-bitch, and we fight him together daily—silently.

That's at least the fifth time we've had that same sad, beautiful conversation in my lifetime. And I expect the next one will be just the same—"like the passing of a scheduled school bus."