all i wanted to say

“Is this always gonna hurt?”

She replied, “It might.”

Silence filled the room. The TV muffled with the morning news, the clatter in the kitchen grew as Aunt Toosie cleaned up from breakfast, and baby Dee was relentlessly banging her toys against the hardwood floor as if that would make her teeth grow in any faster. But the silence was bigger than any of that.

I looked out the window for what felt like hours. In reality, only a minute passed before Momma Jane’s voice emerged again, “I see they’re at it again. The scratches and the scrapes, the cuts and the bruises.” I wasn’t sure if she meant for me to hear that so I narrowed my eyes and kept staring out the window, seeing that the mailman had a peculiar spring in his step that day. Momma abruptly cleared her voice, grabbing my attention. I turned my head and my eyes toward her so she knew I was listening. She began, “You see, heartbreak can feel like a shattering of sorts. I think sometimes we pick up the broken fragments and the jagged pieces for reflection’s sake, and sometimes we end up hurt because of it. And that’s ok.” The corners of my eyes started to feel full so I dropped my head and I kept listening. “Baby girl, no one can rush you through it and no one can make sure you don’t get stuck in it. I’ll be the first to tell you, there’s been many a time that I’ve let my fear justify my hurt. It probably went on longer than it should have, but that’s a story for another day.” She took a large sigh and continued, “The truth is, that hurt is proof that love was there. And for some of us, maybe it still is.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. At that moment I wished I was as little and as squishy as my baby cousin, so that my tears could result in someone holding me and comforting me, without question. But I swallowed that wish and let out a sharp and quick breath. My grandpa’s favorite wooden clock caught my gaze, and so did the time. I wanted to be home by noon, so I needed to be on my way. I threw my braids up into a bun and gathered my things. I leaned over to squeeze Momma J’s hand and rolled my fingers across baby Dee’s head on my way out the door.

Fragile. My feet felt fragile as they hit the brick porch steps, one by one. It was the kind of fragile that would make me choose between carrying the weight of my thoughts or the weight of my backpack for the next thirty minutes. The backpack won — I forgot Aunt Toosie put a whole bag of apples in there (she meant to buy honeycrisp, but she knows that I don’t discriminate against any apple). I tightened the straps on my backpack while tightening the sails of my heavy thoughts, hoping they’d catch wind and visit me another day. On my way to the bus stop I remembered that the bookstore sold flower bouquets half off on Thursday mornings so I made a point to stop in there. For some reason, buying something for myself felt like a good idea. Maybe I could find something unique this time, something new.

The rest of my walk, I took notice of the sky. Something about these clouds have always reminded me of fish scales or elephant skin. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I did know that my second grade teacher would be happy to know that I still refer to them as cirrocumulus clouds. I had perfect attendance that year, not one day was missed. I still remember a handful of the days that I got picked up from school so late that I had to spend the afternoons in the front office with Ms. Youngs. She was so pretty to me, I used to find the most random questions to ask her just so I could hear her talk. One day she was humming the same melody over and over while standing at the copy machine. When I asked her what song it was, she let out a giggle in such a way that she was being teased about something that no one knew about. Looking back, she was probably just reacting to the confidence in my questioning, as if an 8 year old would have any idea about the song she was humming. Either way, she didn’t hesitate to scoot over to the computer and connect the speakers.

As soon as I heard the delicate sound of a harp followed by an energetic timbale tone, I stopped fidgeting with the spiral of my notebook and became still. I had never heard this before. I looked right at Ms. Youngs, her head swaying to the rhythm and her eyes slowly closing. I watched her for the entirety of the song. That might have been the first time I learned that body language can tell a story. I sat on the office floor, criss-cross-applesauce, wanting to know whether these were happy lyrics, sad lyrics, or angry lyrics. By the time the song ended, my oldest brother showed up to walk me home. I usually talked the whole way home, but that day I didn’t. I was too busy wondering why this Lauryn Hill lady would sing about something hurting so bad that it feels so good.

Well, now, I’m twenty years older and beginning to question that song a lot less. I made it to the bus stop and sat, quickly. As I slid my backpack off my shoulder, I caught myself humming the chorus of that song. Within the next few moments, I noticed that the sails of my thoughts must’ve given up because here they come, weighing in. Was Momma Jane saying I was wrong? Is Lauryn Hill saying I’m right? Are they saying the same thing? What the hell was Ms. Youngs going through back then? Do I only have one option? Surely not.

The bus came 4 minutes later than usual. Once I was on, I had one empty seat to my left and two to my right. That much room wasn’t common for a late morning like this. I readjusted my backpack that sat at my feet and leaned into the emptiness on the bus, letting my knees slightly fall into the aisle. I thought about unloading my hands and setting my cup, my books and the bouquet of flowers on the seat next to me but none of it felt like a burden in my arms.

Less than 10 minutes passed before we stopped at 44th & Washington. I haven’t seen headscarf lady in weeks (I call her that because she has a different scarf on every time I see her). She took her time getting on, followed by an older couple and then a group of teenage boys. Today her ears and forehead were tucked and wrapped under a purple and red scarf, with gold stitching somewhere on it too. I watched her look for a seat. Left and right, and left again. She ended up sitting next to me. Not the row in front, not two seats down, not across the aisle — she sat right next to me. I tightened my legs back up, making space for her to get settled. Before I could find a resting place for the things in my arms she made direct eye contact with the bouquet right before saying “Pretty flowers! Mi neva see roses paired with tulips. Who did know dem would look so good together.” I smirked and shrugged my shoulders before responding, “It is a little out of the ordinary, guess I just wanted something different today.” She was nodding her head, “Ahhh yes, dats very good tinkin fi a young woman. There’s no sense in being fearful of choosing different. Mi glad you know so!”

Confused and a little surprised by the Caribbean accent that was showing itself in every other word, I looked at the woman. I was met with a stern look and a soft smile. I paused, unwrinkled my forehead, and let an awkward smile curl up on my face. I didn’t say anything. But all I wanted to say was “I don’t always know, how.”