At A Moments Notice...

I peeped the dreads (long well groomed spiritual manes that he had been growing for the better part of 10 years) from a distance. I knew it was him. We hadn't seen each other in months. A transient, he had come in and out of my life over the years; not since High School had we spent what I would call an adequate amount of time together. He was always on the go, here, there, everywhere. No matter how difficult, I got used to his comings and goings. I understood the cycle: People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you figure out which it is, you know exactly what to do.

We had been friends since 10th grade in High School. Best Friends. He introduced me to Prince and the album that soon changed how I thought of the man: Sign of the Times. He actually bought me the cassettes. For his good intentions, I in turn purchased Tender Lover for him, the Babyface classic everyone and their maama was talking about. Music became our communicator. We spoke for hours of verses that touched our hearts and souls, those that incited anger, even those that convinced us our talents were oh-so-much better. He was my man, my partner, my niggah, long before those words would take on a much different, almost sacred meaning. We were brothers separated at birth, destined to find each other.

I'll never forget the night I popped up at his crib to find him crying the most angry tears I had ever seen a man cry.

"I hate him!" He cried, tears screaming from his eyes.
"Who?" I asked joining him at the table.
"My father..."

His father had died some years earlier, at an age fathers weren't supposed to die. Foolishly I thought his anger was attributed to this unfortunate occurance and thus sought to ease the pain. I pulled out all of my best words. Words that had counseled and eased the pain of countless others. Words full of encouragement, hope and love. Words I just knew would do the trick, but to no avail. His anger only intensified.

"Look at this!" He screamed tossing me a stack of envelopes. "He was a faggot! A fucking faggot!"

The words cut through the tense air with a certain determination, and my heart stopped.

"No wonder he left my moms! No wonder he fucking died!"

While thumbing through the last of his fathers belongings he stumbled upon a stack of cards and letters his father and his lover had exchanged over the years. Sentiments a left behind son was never supposed to find. Tales of love and forgiveness, closets and freedom.

I had never seen my friend hurt like this. Never. And it hurt me to know someone could, and would hurt him like this. And so as I consoled him, I made up my mind never to tell him about my own misguided feelings lurking just beneath the surface.

Years passed and our bond strengthened, this despite his move to a distant city, and my departure to a different lifestyle. We discovered other friends, other loves, other lives; but our commitment to remain best-friends remained strong, and very much intact.

"I umm...I have something to ask you." I muttered, my words filled with nervous engery. He had just moved back to the city and like old times started dropping by my crib to hang, unannounced. Usually that wasn't a problem, but things had changed. "What can I do, be, or say that could make you stop loving me?"

My partner and I were living together, and whenever he dropped by we had to pretend we were just boys, friends, and no in way fucking each other. So I had to tell him.

He thought for quite some time, then looked up and said: "Nothing Chris. You are my brother man, and there is nothing you could do to change that. Nothing."

An indescribable amount of love filled a weary, worry filled heart, and provided me the courage to speak my truth. I watched him closely after I told him. A part of me expecting him to bolt down the stairs and disown me as a friend as he had his father; but he didn't. He just sat there staring off into the distance, weighing the abundance of truth that lay before him.

"I don't care." He said eventually, tears clouding his eyes. "You're my brother, and I don't care."

Love is love, or so they say. When asked how many times should one forgive their brother the bible says: seventy times seven. For years I subscribed to that belief. I would forgive move on; forgive move on. But there comes a time when forgiveness takes it toll. How many times can one forgive a purposeful act? How many times can you physically turn the other cheek?

Through the fire, to the limit, to the wall, I'd been there, hoping and praying the promises spoken were words meant to keep; yet year after year, transgression after transgression I had no choice but to turn the other cheek. My shits are bruised, tired, and deflated. There's nothing left. CD has left the building.

As I approached him, I wanted to pull over and catch up. I wanted to hug him and let him know I'd moved on, that I'd forgiven him. I wanted to...God knows I wanted to. But I knew if I did, I was only setting myself up. So instead, I tapped on the window, smiled, and kept it moving.

Love is forever, relationships aren't.