It's June. June 2020. That year. That time.
CoronaVirus, shattered economy, Another Black Man nakedly executed by the system on video.
Tough times for all. Plenty of time to reflect.
A schoolmate Dash knew from grade school took his own life.
Macro and micro.
Growing Pains. Parenting Pains.
Both our jobs are safe; most everyone we know is healthy.
We're okay. But a fragile time.
I haven't always felt disconnected.
But before that first remembered disconnect, I was disconnected. At birth I was given up for adoption, and my dad's first wife left when I was two.
A lesser disconnection, but the first remembered: Aunt Alice, my nanny - the earliest mother figure I still remember...
The first time my new stepmom hit me - at five-years old - I remember a disconnect, a violent shattering.
At eight, I remember huddling outside in the dark, hiding, scared. Trying to figure out where I could go, how I would eat. Stepmom had yelled at me "Tonight there is only going to be one of us in this house." She hadn't left. I was alone in the dark. The world was huge. I was facing how helpless I was in it. I was scared.