Passing moments

I read and walk so I don’t have to look up, don’t have to meet the eyes of strangers passing by.

Maybe it’s the shyness still lingering in me, or maybe I just don’t want to be bothered.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, young lady. What are you reading today?”

I couldn’t shy away from his voice

The elder I see almost every morning on my walk to the bus stop,

book in hand, disappearing into pages before work.

“Today’s read is If Beale Street Could Talk,” I say in passing, looking up, meeting his eyes,

offering a smile—because I’m always reminded of how beautiful it is to be seen.

Maybe I just wanted to leave him with some beauty in the brief exchange of our mornings.

My teenager is sleeping in class again.

So, I pull from somewhere deep, shaping a stern parental voice—one that carries the weight of a single mother

who also has to play dad because his real father has tapped out.

I only want the best for him.

But I also need him to want the same for himself.

Yah, I need you.

A short prayer before I speak to my Black son,

who will one day be a Black man.

I read his blog today.

I had assumed that by now, after all the prayers, all the releasing of the what-ifs,

God would have let this man drift from my thoughts, carried away like the wind.

Nope.

So, I release you… again.

I have dived into breathwork since the shift.

Not to just heal… because I have reached a different point in this journey of healing.

But to release what no longer belongs to me.

I was moving like I was still bound,

but I am free.

Breathwork has helped me see that.

With every inhale, I reclaim who I’ve always been.

With every exhale, I let go of who I no longer need to be.

And I had to do it alone first,

in order to do it with others.

The day exhales, and so do I.

No holding on, no reaching back.. just being.

Soft, still, here.