Journal: La’ Tonya 3 of 3

Chapter 1 — The Last Week

By Wednesday morning, the blisters on my hands looked almost respectable.

Not healed.

Just less embarrassing.

The little bubbles across my palms no longer screamed every time I touched a basketball.

Now they only complained.

According to my cousins, that meant I was ready.

According to me, it meant North Carolina had spent the last few days trying to physically prevent me from getting embarrassed again.

The rematch sat on everybody’s mind.

At least everybody else’s version of the rematch.

My cousins treated it like a championship game.

I treated it like survival.

The funny thing was, nobody talked about it directly that morning.

Not at first.

Southern families believed in sneaking pressure into conversations.

You would be eating breakfast minding your business when somebody casually said something designed to ruin your entire day.

I walked into the kitchen still half asleep while my great-aunt stood over the stove making biscuits.

Grease popped.

The radio played softly near the window.

A fan turned side to side pushing warm air around the room.

My great-grandmother sat at the table drinking coffee.

One of my cousins looked up from his cereal.

“You nervous?”

There it was.

Breakfast ruined.

“No.”

“Mhm.”

Everybody laughed.

Even my great-grandmother smiled into her coffee cup.

“I ain’t nervous.”

“You checked that basketball three times before breakfast.”

“I was looking for it.”

“It was beside the couch.”

“I know where it was.”

“Apparently not.”

More laughing.

I grabbed a biscuit and sat down.

The Carolina sun already looked bright outside.

You could tell it was going to be hot.

The kind of hot that made shirts stick to your back before noon.

My cousin pointed toward my hands.

“Let me see.”

I showed him.

He nodded seriously.

“Yeah. You good.”

Like he was a doctor.

“You ain’t a medical professional.”

“I know basketball injuries.”

“You got stung by hornets and cried.”

“I did not cry.”

“You absolutely cried.”

The whole table started laughing again.

Then my auntie walked through carrying shopping bags from the day before.

New notebooks.

Folders.

School clothes.

All piled together.

“Move these before somebody step on them.”

Immediately the mood shifted a little.

School.

Everybody had been talking about it all week.

My cousins and La’Tonya started Monday.

I still had a little more summer left before eighth grade started back in Jersey.

One cousin looked at the bags and sighed dramatically.

“Man.”

“You ready?” my auntie asked.

“No.”

“Tough.”

Everybody laughed.

“High school ain’t waiting on nobody,” another auntie said.

That made me think about La’Tonya for a second.

Not the game.

High school.

She was heading into high school.

I was still heading into eighth grade.

Back then one year felt like ten.

By the time breakfast ended, everybody in the house somehow knew today was rematch day.

Nobody announced it.

News just traveled.

That was another Southern superpower.

Information moved through relatives faster than electricity.

By midmorning I sat outside on the porch spinning a basketball slowly.

Not practicing.

Thinking.

At least that is what I told myself.

Truthfully, I was nervous.

Not because of basketball.

Because somewhere over the last few weeks, beating La’Tonya stopped being the point.

The game became attached to everything else.

The phone calls.

The fishing trip.

The walks.

The laughing.

The way she said Jersey.

The way she always seemed amused before I even finished talking.

The game had become bigger than the scoreboard.

And that felt dangerous.

One of my cousins dropped into the porch chair beside me.

“You know she been talking trash.”

“Everybody talks trash.”

“Nah. Different.”

I looked over.

“What she say?”

He smiled immediately.

Hook set.

“She said don’t let Jersey back out.”

I shook my head.

“I never backed out.”

“Mhm.”

“There you go.”

He laughed.

For a few seconds we just sat there listening to the neighborhood.

Somebody cutting grass.

Somebody playing music too loud.

Kids riding bikes.

Dogs barking.

Normal summer sounds.

Then my cousin got quiet.

“You leaving soon, ain’t you?”

That caught me off guard.

“Yeah.”

He nodded.

“A couple weeks?”

“Something like that.”

Neither of us said anything after that.

Because suddenly the rematch felt smaller.

The game would end.

The summer would end.

And somehow everybody knew it.

Even if nobody wanted to talk about it yet.

Around lunchtime the heat settled over everything.

The kind of heat that made the air itself look tired.

My great-grandmother sat on the porch fanning herself.

The church fan moved slowly back and forth.

She watched me spinning the basketball.

“You practicing?”

“A little.”

She smiled.

“You been carrying that thing around all week.”

“It’s basketball.”

“Mhm.”

Even she was doing it now.

I laughed.

“You too?”

She pointed the fan toward me.

“Boy, everybody know.”

“Know what?”

She smiled but never answered.

That was another thing old folks did.

They left you alone with your own thoughts.

Somehow that always felt worse.

The afternoon moved slowly.

Too slowly.

Every hour felt longer than the one before.

I shot baskets near the side of the house.

Worked on my jumper.

Practiced free throws.

Tried not to think about who would be watching later.

Failed immediately.

The funny thing was, nobody even knew what time the game was.

Back then parents controlled everything.

You did not make plans for three o’clock.

Or four-thirty.

Or six.

You got time blocks.

After chores.

After shopping.

After church.

Before dark.

If your mama said be home by six, then six was the schedule.

One cousin looked out the window.

“Y’all still playing today?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Ain’t nobody asked her mama yet.”

That was a fair point.

Half the plans we made that summer depended on whichever adult answered the question first.

By three o’clock, I had already changed shirts twice.

Not because they were dirty.

Because I suddenly cared about how I looked.

My cousins noticed.

Of course they noticed.

“Boy changed clothes again.”

“It’s hot.”

“You matching now.”

“I always match.”

“No you don’t.”

More laughter.

No mercy.

None.

Finally, sometime after four, one of my cousins looked down the street.

Then smiled.

Then stood up.

That smile told me everything.

“Ohhhhh.”

Immediately everybody looked.

I followed their eyes.

And there she was.

Walking toward the courts.

Basketball tucked underneath one arm.

Two friends beside her.

Same confidence.

Same smile.

Same calm energy.

Like she had not spent the last week living rent-free inside my head.

One cousin stood up dramatically.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

“Sit down.”

“…the main event.”

Now everybody laughing.

Even my great-grandmother.

La’Tonya looked toward the porch.

Then toward me.

Then smiled.

Not a big smile.

Just enough.

Then she yelled from halfway down the block:

“You ready, Jersey?”

My cousins exploded.

I shook my head laughing.

Then bounced the basketball once.

“Better stretch first.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

And just like that…

The waiting was over.

Chapter 2 — The Rematch

By the time we reached the courts, half the neighborhood already knew what was happening.

The other half would know soon enough.

That was how news traveled down there.

Faster than phones.

Faster than common sense.

The Carolina heat sat heavy over the blacktop.

Chain nets hung motionless.

The recreation center looked exactly the same as the day I first got embarrassed there.

Only now it felt familiar.

Like part of the summer instead of part of the neighborhood.

My cousins walked beside me carrying enough confidence for all of us.

“You better not lose.”

“Appreciate the support.”

“I’m serious.”

“You wasn’t serious when hornets was chasing me.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You wasn’t playing basketball.”

Fair point.

Ahead of us, La’Tonya stood near the court with her friends.

Basketball tucked underneath one arm.

Blue Icee in the other hand.

She spotted us immediately.

Then smiled.

Not a big smile.

Just enough.

“You finally made it.”

“Been here.”

“Liar.”

“Mhm.”

There it was again.

That little sound.

By now it felt like a language all by itself.

One of my cousins stepped forward dramatically.

“Aight. Rules.”

Nobody asked him.

Nobody wanted him involved.

That never stopped cousins.

“One game.”

“Okay.”

“No crying.”

Everybody looked at me.

“Why y’all looking at me?”

“History.”

The whole court started laughing.

Even La’Tonya.

We decided to play to eleven.

Every basket worth one.

Every foul worth arguing about.

Every possession worth a debate.

The first game started exactly how the first one ended.

With La’Tonya talking.

“You ready?”

“You ask that a lot.”

“You answer slow.”

“You nervous?”

“Scoreboard.”

That got a reaction.

Because she had a point.

The first game had not gone my way.

At all.

She checked the ball.

The game started.

Right away I could tell something felt different.

The first time we played, I was trying not to embarrass myself.

This time I actually wanted to win.

Not because of the crowd.

Not because of my cousins.

Because somewhere along the way, losing to La’Tonya became personal.

She crossed left.

I stayed with her.

The crowd reacted immediately.

“OHHHH.”

“She ain’t get him that time.”

La’Tonya glanced at me.

“You practiced.”

“A little.”

“Mhm.”

The score moved back and forth.

One for her.

One for me.

Two for her.

Two for me.

Nobody pulled away.

Every basket got louder reactions.

Every miss got analyzed by twelve people who weren’t even playing.

Kids stopped riding bikes.

People drifted over from the other court.

Somebody turned down their boombox.

By six-six, the game felt bigger than it should have.

By eight-eight, everybody was invested.

Even the adults sitting in lawn chairs nearby started paying attention.

The heat wrapped around everything.

Sweat rolled down my face.

My shirt stuck to my back.

Somewhere nearby somebody grilled food.

Barbecue smoke drifted through the air.

Summer kept happening around us while the game got serious.

At nine-nine, the crowd got quieter.

Not silent.

Just focused.

The way people get when they unexpectedly care about something.

La’Tonya dribbled slowly.

“You tired?”

“No.”

“You breathing hard.”

“So are you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

She smiled.

“It just is.”

Then she hit a jumper.

Ten-nine.

Game point.

The crowd exploded.

“Jersey done.”

“Wrap it up.”

“Game over.”

My cousins started yelling advice.

None of it useful.

I took the ball.

Ten-nine.

One possession.

One mistake.

One shot.

I remember looking at her.

Sweat on her forehead.

Hands on her knees.

Still smiling.

Always smiling.

I drove.

Nothing.

Pulled back.

Shot.

The ball hit the backboard.

Then the rim.

Then bounced straight up.

Everybody held their breath.

Then it dropped.

Ten-ten.

Now the whole court lost its mind.

Even I laughed.

La’Tonya shook her head.

“You got lucky.”

“Scoreboard.”

Now it was my turn.

She rolled her eyes.

The final possession felt longer than the entire game.

She missed.

I grabbed the rebound.

Pulled the ball back out.

She stayed in front.

No opening.

No lane.

No easy shot.

Then I saw just enough space.

One step.

Pull-up jumper.

Release.

The second it left my hand, it felt right.

The ball dropped clean through the chain net.

Snap.

Eleven-ten.

Game.

For a second nobody moved.

Then everybody exploded.

My cousins lost their minds.

Her friends started yelling.

Kids ran onto the court.

People argued immediately.

“She let him win.”

“No she didn’t.”

“Yes she did.”

“He earned that.”

“No way.”

The debate started before we even left the blacktop.

Meanwhile neither one of us seemed to care as much as everybody else.

The game was over.

The score was the score.

Eventually the crowd started breaking apart.

Kids got called home.

Parents started appearing on porches.

The sun dipped lower.

The neighborhood began shifting toward evening.

La’Tonya and I ended up walking a little behind everybody else.

For the first time all afternoon, it got quiet.

No cousins.

No crowd.

No commentary.

Just us.

“You really practiced.”

“A little.”

“You obsessed.”

“You started it.”

That made her laugh.

For a few seconds we walked without saying much.

The courts sat behind us now.

The game already fading.

Then she looked down at the sidewalk.

“School start Monday.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

That surprised me.

“You going to high school.”

“Unfortunately.”

I laughed.

“That sounds important.”

“Everybody keeps acting like it is.”

“It is.”

She smiled.

“You still got another year.”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Trust me.”

A few more steps.

Then I looked over.

“You scared?”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

“There you go again.”

She smiled.

Then kicked a small rock across the sidewalk.

For the first time all summer, neither one of us had anything funny to say.

The game was over.

Monday was coming.

And somehow we both knew things were about to change.

Then she stopped walking.

I stopped too.

She looked at me.

Smiled.

Then before I could figure out what was happening, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

Quick.

Simple.

Gone almost as soon as it happened.

I just stood there.

Completely frozen.

She started walking backward.

Smiling.

“Good luck, Jersey.”

Then she turned and jogged toward her friends.

The crazy part wasn’t the kiss.

The crazy part was that I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Not one.

Thirty seconds later my cousins appeared.

Which was unfortunate.

“OHHHHHHHH.”

“NAHHHH.”

“She kissed him.”

“JERSEY GOT A GIRLFRIEND.”

“We not together.”

Nobody listened.

Of course they didn’t.

They spent the entire walk home making my life difficult.

And honestly?

I didn’t care.

Chapter 3 — What’s the 411?

I should have known keeping a secret was impossible.

Not in that neighborhood.

Not with those cousins.

Not after what happened.

The second we got back near my great-grandmother’s house, the news had already outrun us.

I still do not know how.

We were walking.

The information was somehow sprinting.

By the time we reached the yard, one of my little cousins was already yelling:

“JERSEY GOT KISSED.”

I stopped walking immediately.

“How you know?”

“I got sources.”

“You nine.”

“Reliable sources.”

The whole porch exploded laughing.

My great-aunt looked up from shelling peas.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

That was a mistake.

Southern adults hear the word nothing the same way sharks smell blood.

My great-grandmother lowered her church fan.

“Mhm.”

I was finished.

One cousin pointed dramatically.

“La’Tonya kissed him.”

Now everybody reacted.

Not shocked.

Excited.

Like they had been waiting all summer for confirmation.

“AWWWW.”

“Look at Jersey.”

“Boy finally got him a girlfriend.”

“We not together.”

Nobody listened.

Again.

My great-uncle sat back in his lawn chair laughing.

“Boy won one basketball game and life changed.”

“It was a close game.”

“That ain’t what they talking about.”

More laughter.

I wanted to disappear.

Instead I sat on the porch steps trying to act normal.

Failed immediately.

One cousin dropped beside me.

“You touching your face.”

“I am not.”

“You definitely are.”

I immediately stopped touching my face.

Which proved his point.

Now everybody laughing harder.

The Carolina evening settled slowly over the neighborhood.

Porch lights started coming on.

Music drifted from somewhere down the block.

Somebody nearby was grilling again.

I never understood how Southern people always found a reason to cook.

Every gathering somehow became food.

A basketball game.

Somebody visiting.

Church.

A random Wednesday.

Somehow it always ended with somebody frying something.

Across the yard, one auntie carried shopping bags into the house.

New notebooks.

Folders.

Loose-leaf paper.

School supplies.

A couple cousins immediately started complaining.

“I don’t wanna go back.”

“You say that every year.”

“Because school every year.”

That got a laugh from everybody.

But it also reminded me of something.

Monday was coming.

Not eventually.

Not someday.

Monday.

Real soon.

My grandmother sat near the window watching all of it.

Smiling.

Not teasing.

Just watching.

The same smile she got whenever life was teaching me something before I realized it myself.

One of my cousins pointed toward the shopping bags.

“La’Tonya starting high school.”

“Man shut up.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

He laughed.

“Jersey emotional.”

“I ain’t emotional.”

“Mhm.”

Everybody had stolen that word now.

Even the adults.

The attention finally moved away from me.

Thank God.

For about twenty minutes.

Then the phone rang.

Everybody froze.

Then every head slowly turned toward me.

“Ohhhhh.”

“No.”

“Oh yes.”

“It could be anybody.”

Nobody believed that.

One cousin sprinted inside.

The rest of us followed.

Not because we needed to.

Because drama was free entertainment.

The kitchen phone sat on the wall beside the refrigerator.

My cousin grabbed it first.

“Hello?”

Pause.

Then immediate chaos.

“IT’S FOR JERSEY.”

The whole house erupted.

I wanted to throw him through a window.

Not violently.

Just spiritually.

“Give me the phone.”

He handed it over smiling.

Too much smiling.

I pressed the receiver to my ear.

“Hello?”

La’Tonya laughed immediately.

“You sound tired.”

“Because my family terrible.”

“I can hear them.”

That was the problem.

Everybody was still standing there.

Listening.

Breathing.

Existing too close.

“Y’all got nothing else to do?”

“Nope,” one cousin answered.

La’Tonya laughed harder.

“I told my friends.”

“About what?”

“The game.”

“That all?”

She paused.

“Maybe.”

Now I was smiling.

Which was unfortunate because my cousins noticed immediately.

“OHHHH.”

“Look at him.”

“He smiling again.”

I covered the receiver.

“Move.”

Nobody moved.

Of course not.

La’Tonya finally rescued me.

“You ready for school?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

“High school.”

“Don’t remind me.”

I laughed.

“You scared.”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

“There it is.”

We both laughed.

Then it got quiet for a second.

Not awkward.

Just quiet.

Like neither one of us knew exactly what came next.

Outside, I could hear crickets starting up.

Inside, the fan hummed near the kitchen doorway.

The whole house felt slower than it had earlier.

Finally she spoke.

“You leaving soon.”

Not a question.

A fact.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Before school starts.”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

Different this time.

Softer.

I twisted the phone cord around my finger.

The same way I had done all summer.

Neither one of us said much after that.

We did not need to.

Because for the first time all summer, the calendar had become real.

Monday.

High school.

Eighth grade.

Homework.

Alarm clocks.

Real life waiting patiently at the end of summer.

Eventually somebody on her side yelled something.

Then somebody on mine yelled something.

Families reclaiming territory.

La’Tonya laughed.

“I gotta go.”

“Aight.”

“Talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

“There you go again.”

“Bye, Jersey.”

“Bye.”

The line clicked dead.

For a second I kept holding the phone.

Listening to nothing.

Then my cousin slapped my shoulder.

“You in love.”

“Man shut up.”

But I was smiling.

And honestly?

That made defending myself impossible.

Outside, the Carolina sky had turned dark.

Lightning bugs floated above the grass.

Music drifted softly through the neighborhood.

And somewhere between the phone call, the shopping bags, the school supplies, and everybody pretending summer would last forever…

Monday kept getting closer.

Chapter 4 — What They Teaching Y’all in New Jersey?

Thursday felt different.

Not because anything big happened.

Because nothing did.

The rematch was over.

The kiss happened.

And somehow everybody in my family decided that meant they needed to supervise me.

By late afternoon, the house started filling up again.

That was normal.

Southern houses never stayed empty long.

Somebody always stopped by.

A cousin.

An auntie.

A neighbor.

A church friend.

Somebody bringing food.

Somebody borrowing something.

Somebody staying longer than they originally planned.

By the time the evening news ended, the living room looked full.

Box fan humming.

Adults talking.

Kids stretched across the floor.

Olympic basketball coverage playing on television.

Outside, the Carolina heat finally started loosening its grip on the neighborhood.

Then La’Tonya showed up.

Right on time.

My cousins noticed before anybody else.

Of course they did.

“OHHHH.”

“Here he go.”

“Boy, sit down.”

I wanted a new family immediately.

La’Tonya walked inside smiling.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

My grandmother smiled from her chair.

“Come on in, baby.”

“Yes ma’am.”

That mattered.

Southern adults paid attention to manners.

Every single one.

The second she answered properly, I saw three older relatives nod like she just passed a background check.

She sat down near the couch while Olympic basketball discussion played across the television.

A commentator talked about the upcoming Olympics while the adults immediately started arguing.

“I’m telling you right now,” my uncle said.

“Here we go,” another uncle answered.

“If they let NBA players play, ain’t nobody beating us.”

“Facts.”

“Jordan.”

“Magic.”

“Bird.”

My uncle shook his head.

“Wouldn’t even be fair.”

Another relative laughed.

“They’d win every game by thirty.”

La’Tonya looked toward the television.

“You really think they’d win that easy?”

My uncle pointed at the screen.

“Baby, if America ever sends its best players, everybody else might as well stay home.”

The room laughed.

Then La’Tonya looked over at me.

“You think you’d win that easy too?”

“There you go.”

“What?”

“You talking trash already.”

“Mhm.”

There it was again.

That little sound.

By now it felt like a language all by itself.

Then my auntie looked directly at me.

“Boy.”

Uh-oh.

“Ask that girl if she thirsty.”

“I’m sure she okay.”

The entire room reacted.

Wrong answer.

“I didn’t ask if she was okay.”

Now everybody laughing.

My uncle pointed at me.

“What they teaching y’all in New Jersey?”

“Apparently nothing,” another auntie added.

La’Tonya covered her face laughing.

I stood up.

“You want something to drink?”

“A Coke is fine.”

“There you go,” my auntie said.

Like I just passed a final exam.

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a cold glass bottle from the refrigerator.

Brought it back.

Handed it to her.

“Here.”

“Thank you.”

Before she could even take a sip, my uncle looked over.

“You ain’t open it?”

I blinked.

“What?”

The room exploded.

“Boy.”

“You brought her the drink.”

“Yeah.”

“Then open the drink.”

“She can open a Coke.”

My grandmother laughed into her church fan.

“That ain’t the point.”

Now even La’Tonya laughing.

I took the bottle back.

“Y’all doing too much.”

POP.

The cap came off.

I handed it back.

“Thank you,” she said again.

“You’re welcome.”

My uncle nodded proudly.

“Progress.”

A few minutes later dinner came out.

Fish.

Macaroni and cheese.

Potato salad.

Sweet tea.

Enough food to feed a small town.

My auntie pointed toward the kitchen.

“Boy.”

Here we go again.

“Fix that girl a plate.”

“I think she can fix her own plate.”

The room got quiet.

Not dangerous quiet.

Educational quiet.

My great-aunt looked at me.

“She can.”

Pause.

“But you’re supposed to offer.”

Now everybody laughing again.

Even La’Tonya.

Especially La’Tonya.

I grabbed a plate.

“What you want?”

She smiled.

“Whatever you think.”

That answer stressed me out immediately.

“What does that even mean?”

Now everybody laughing harder.

While I stood there confused, my grandmother finally spoke up.

She closed her church fan and looked directly at me.

“Good manners ain’t about impressing a girl.”

The room got quiet.

“It’s about showing somebody they matter.”

Nobody laughed that time.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because it was.

I looked down at the plate in my hands.

Then back at La’Tonya.

And for a second, I understood exactly what she meant.

The rest of the evening moved easy.

Basketball on television.

Family stories.

Kids running in and out of the house.

Lightning bugs beginning to appear outside.

The kind of night that felt ordinary while it was happening.

The kind you miss years later.

Eventually people started leaving.

Plates got wrapped in foil.

Goodbyes started.

The sky turned orange.

Then purple.

Then dark.

La’Tonya stood near the porch steps while her friends waited down the sidewalk.

“You coming tomorrow?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“Mhm.”

“There you go again.”

She smiled.

Then looked back toward the house.

My family still laughing.

Still talking.

Still correcting people.

“I like your family.”

That caught me off guard.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Even after they embarrassed me for three straight hours?”

“Especially after that.”

I laughed.

She started walking backward down the sidewalk.

“See you tomorrow, Jersey.”

“Tomorrow.”

She waved.

Just once.

I waved back.

Then she turned and headed toward her friends.

I stood there watching until she disappeared around the corner.

And for the first time all week…

Friday felt a lot farther away than twenty-four hours.

Chapter 5 — Twenty Dollars

By Friday afternoon, the entire family knew I was going to the movies.

Not because I told them.

Apparently I told everybody in my sleep.

At least that’s what my cousins claimed.

“Boy was talking all night.”

“I was asleep.”

“Exactly.”

“I wasn’t talking.”

“You said her name.”

“I did not.”

“Twice.”

“Three times,” another cousin added.

“Four,” somebody else yelled from the living room.

“Y’all lying.”

My auntie looked up from the stove.

“You was smiling too.”

“How would you know?”

“Because everybody heard about it before breakfast.”

The whole kitchen started laughing.

Southern families didn’t need evidence.

They just needed a theory and enough relatives willing to repeat it.

The plan sounded simple enough.

La’Tonya’s mother was taking a group of us to see Big.

Then she’d bring us home afterward.

Easy.

No drama.

No complications.

I was wrong immediately.

The second the words “movie” and “La’Tonya” appeared in the same sentence, every adult in the family suddenly became a relationship expert.

I was sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich when my uncle started.

“You paying?”

I looked up.

“For what?”

The room reacted instantly.

“For what?”

“Lord help him.”

Now everybody laughing.

“It’s a movie.”

“And?”

“La’Tonya going.”

“And?”

I already knew this wasn’t ending well.

One auntie sat down across from me.

“Boy should buy her popcorn.”

Another uncle disagreed immediately.

“With what money?”

“He got money.”

“He ain’t got that kind of money.”

The room split into teams.

Team Pay.

Team He Ain’t Got No Job.

Meanwhile I just wanted to watch a movie.

Then my uncle looked over his glasses.

“So when you asking her to be your girlfriend?”

I almost choked on my sandwich.

“What?”

The room exploded.

“Boy got kissed and forgot his responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities?” I repeated.

“Absolutely.”

Another uncle nodded seriously.

“Young lady kissed you on the cheek in public.”

“Public?” I asked.

“Half the neighborhood witnessed it.”

“That’s true,” one cousin added helpfully.

“Y’all making stuff up.”

“Nah,” my auntie said.

“You got to make an honest woman out of her now.”

I wanted the floor to open immediately.

“We just friends.”

The room got quiet.

Dangerous quiet.

Then my uncle leaned forward.

“Friends?”

“Yes.”

“The same friend that kissed you?”

“It was on the cheek.”

“A kiss is a kiss.”

The room exploded again.

My cousin nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

“Boy ain’t even asked her to be his girlfriend yet.”

“I don’t have to ask.”

The room got quiet again.

“Oh?”

My uncle leaned forward.

“Explain.”

“No.”

“EXPLAIN.”

Now everybody laughing harder than before.

I immediately regretted speaking.

My grandmother shook her head smiling into her church fan.

“Leave that boy alone.”

Then she looked at me.

“Although…”

I knew that look.

“Although what?”

She smiled.

“Nothing.”

That was worse.

Much worse.

The debate finally returned to the movie.

A few minutes later my grandmother looked around the room and reached inside her dress.

Not a pocket.

Not her purse.

The other purse.

Every Southern grandmother had one.

The secret purse.

The one nobody acknowledged but everybody knew existed.

A few seconds later she pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

My eyes got wide immediately.

Twenty dollars.

In 1988, that felt like winning the lottery.

My uncle pointed.

“See?”

“Told y’all she had money.”

“Mind your business,” Grandma answered.

The room laughed.

She handed me the twenty.

“Here.”

“For what?”

“The movies.”

“Grandma, I got money.”

She looked over her glasses.

“Not enough.”

Now everybody laughing again.

I took the bill carefully.

The funny thing wasn’t the money.

It was the trust.

Grandma wasn’t giving me movie money.

She was giving me responsibility.

Then she pointed her church fan at me.

“The money ain’t the point.”

Now everybody listening.

“Then what’s the point?” I asked.

“The offer.”

The room got quiet.

“You offer because you’re respectful.”

She tapped the folded twenty against my hand.

“You offer because you’re grateful.”

Then she added:

“And because that’s how you treat people.”

Nobody argued after that.

Not because she was loud.

Because she was right.

A few minutes later the advice started coming from every direction.

“Open doors.”

“Say yes ma’am.”

“Say thank you.”

“Don’t interrupt adults.”

“Don’t talk through the movie.”

“Comb your hair.”

“My hair is combed.”

“Comb it again.”

The whole room laughed.

By four o’clock I had received enough advice to write a handbook.

One cousin walked through carrying a basketball.

“Boy getting ready like he meeting the President.”

“I am not.”

“You changed shirts twice.”

“It’s hot.”

“Mhm.”

There that word go again.

Then one cousin got quiet.

“School starting soon.”

The room softened for a second.

“Yeah,” another cousin said.

“This might be the last movie y’all watch together.”

Nobody said anything.

Just for a moment.

Then my auntie broke the silence.

“Then he definitely buying popcorn.”

The whole room erupted again.

Outside, the Carolina heat hung heavy over the neighborhood.

Kids rode bikes through the street.

Somebody cut grass three houses down.

Music drifted from an open window.

Summer making one final push before school arrived.

Then a car horn sounded outside.

Immediately the house reacted.

“OHHHH.”

“Movie time.”

“La’Tonya waiting.”

“Don’t forget your manners.”

“Don’t forget Grandma’s twenty.”

“Don’t forget your girlfriend.”

“We not together.”

Nobody listened.

Of course they didn’t.

I stood up and headed toward the door.

Then my grandmother gently grabbed my arm.

Not hard.

Just enough.

I looked down.

She looked up.

Then smiled.

“Just be yourself.”

Finally.

Some advice that made sense.

I nodded.

“Yes ma’am.”

She patted my hand.

Then pointed toward my pocket.

“And bring my change back.”

The whole room exploded laughing.

Even I couldn’t help laughing.

A few minutes later I stepped outside.

La’Tonya’s mother sat behind the wheel.

A couple friends already in the back seat.

La’Tonya sitting by the window.

She looked up when she saw me.

Then smiled.

Not a big smile.

Just enough.

The same smile that somehow made every cousin in my family lose their minds.

“OHHHHHH.”

I turned around.

“Y’all need hobbies.”

That only made them laugh harder.

I got in the car.

Closed the door.

And as we pulled away from the house, I looked back toward the porch.

My grandmother stood there holding her church fan.

Watching.

Making sure every lesson she spent the week teaching me made it out of the driveway.

The twenty-dollar bill sat folded in my pocket.

And somewhere between Grandma’s advice, my family’s jokes, and La’Tonya smiling through the car window…

Friday suddenly felt important.

Chapter 6 — Big

The ride to the movie theater felt longer than it actually was.

Not because the theater sat far away.

Because I spent the entire ride remembering instructions.

Open doors.

Say thank you.

Offer to pay.

Don’t talk through the movie.

Don’t embarrass the family.

Most importantly:

Bring Grandma’s change back.

That twenty-dollar bill sat folded inside my pocket the whole drive.

Meanwhile everybody else seemed relaxed.

La’Tonya sat near the window.

Her friends talked nonstop.

One cousin kept pretending he knew movie facts nobody asked for.

Her mother drove while occasionally telling everybody to settle down before somebody got left behind.

Normal.

Everything felt normal.

Which somehow made me more nervous.

The theater parking lot looked packed.

Summer wasn’t over yet.

Everybody still squeezing every last drop out of vacation before school showed up.

The second we walked inside, cold air hit us.

Actual cold air.

After weeks of Carolina heat it felt like stepping inside another country.

Popcorn.

Candy.

Movie posters.

Arcade machines.

Everything looked exciting.

Even the carpet.

Back then movie theaters felt magical.

Not because they were fancy.

Because they were rare.

You didn’t watch movies whenever you wanted.

You waited.

Then one day you finally got there.

And it felt like an event.

We got in line.

Immediately I remembered Grandma’s twenty dollars.

My heart started beating harder.

Not because of the money.

Because of the mission.

I looked at La’Tonya.

Then at her mother.

Then back at La’Tonya.

“You want me to buy your ticket?”

The words came out faster than I planned.

Her mother smiled immediately.

“Aww.”

Now I wanted to disappear.

“That’s sweet, baby.”

Mission accomplished.

Then she ruined it.

“But I already got everybody.”

The adults in my family would’ve been proud anyway.

The offer happened.

That was the point.

Not the money.

The offer.

A little later, while we waited for everybody to finish arguing over snacks, La’Tonya bumped my shoulder.

“You know you offered to buy my ticket?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled.

“That was nice.”

“My grandmother made me.”

That made her laugh.

“Tell her thank you.”

I laughed too.

“I probably will.”

Inside the theater everybody immediately started negotiating seats.

That process took longer than buying tickets.

Friends wanted to sit together.

Cousins wanted the back.

Somebody wanted the aisle.

Somebody complained about every option.

Eventually everybody settled down.

And somehow me and La’Tonya ended up sitting beside each other.

Not planned.

At least not officially.

The lights dimmed.

The previews started.

And for the first time all night everybody got quiet.

Big was funny.

Really funny.

The whole theater laughed.

Especially during the scenes where Tom Hanks kept trying to act like a grown man while still thinking like a kid.

Every few minutes somebody in our group laughed louder than everybody else.

Usually one of my cousins.

Then everybody laughed at them laughing.

The movie became part of the memory.

Not just the story.

The people watching it.

Halfway through the movie I glanced over.

La’Tonya was smiling.

Completely focused on the screen.

For some reason that made me smile too.

Outside the theater, school waited.

Schedules waited.

Responsibilities waited.

But inside?

For two hours none of that existed.

Just laughter.

Popcorn.

Air conditioning.

And summer.

At some point our shoulders touched.

Neither one of us moved.

Not away.

Not closer.

Just enough.

Funny how little things felt huge back then.

The movie ended.

The lights came back on.

Everybody stretched.

Talked.

Argued about favorite scenes.

One cousin announced he could definitely handle being grown.

Nobody believed him.

Outside, the warm Carolina night greeted us again.

Streetlights glowed.

Cars moved slowly through the parking lot.

People headed home.

The movie was over.

But nobody seemed in a hurry to leave.

We ended up walking behind everybody else.

Not planned.

Just happened.

The funny thing about being young is you don’t always know a moment is important until you’re standing inside it.

The crowd moved ahead.

Friends talking.

Adults talking.

Cousins talking.

For once nobody paying attention to us.

Just enough distance.

Just enough privacy.

I looked over.

She looked over too.

Then before I could talk myself out of it, I asked.

“You wanna be my girlfriend?”

No speech.

No preparation.

No strategy.

Just the question.

The same question boys had been asking girls forever.

She looked down.

Then smiled.

Then looked away.

“Maybe.”

I frowned.

“Maybe?”

She started laughing.

“Maybe means keep talking.”

“I thought girls liked confidence.”

“Who told you that?”

“My cousins.”

That made her laugh harder.

“That explains a lot.”

Now I was laughing too.

The nervousness started fading.

A little.

Then she looked back at me.

Really looked at me.

And smiled.

Not a big smile.

Just enough.

“Yeah, Jersey.”

Just like that.

Yeah.

One word.

No fireworks.

No dramatic movie ending.

Just yeah.

And somehow it felt bigger than all those things.

Then she leaned closer.

And kissed me.

A real kiss.

Soft.

Quick.

Certain.

And for a second everything disappeared.

The parking lot.

The movie.

The noise.

Everything.

Gone.

Now looking back, I understand it differently.

It wasn’t forever.

It wasn’t a wedding.

It wasn’t some grand promise.

But at that age?

It felt important.

I asked.

She said yes.

And somehow that was enough.

By the time we caught up to everybody else, nobody knew.

Not my cousins.

Not her friends.

Nobody.

The whole ride home everybody talked over each other.

Favorite scenes.

Funny moments.

Arguments about whether Tom Hanks should have stayed grown.

Nobody noticed me smiling.

Nobody noticed La’Tonya smiling either.

And nobody knew that somewhere between Grandma’s twenty dollars, Tom Hanks pretending to be grown, and a warm Carolina night…

I got my first girlfriend.

And neither one of us knew how little time we had left.

Chapter 7 — Time Flies

Saturday arrived feeling wide open.

At least to me.

Adults knew better.

Back then parents didn’t explain every detail to children.

Information got released on a need-to-know basis.

And apparently I didn’t need to know much.

As far as I understood, we had all day.

Looking back, we didn’t.

Our flight wasn’t leaving until eleven that night.

We had to be at the airport around nine-thirty.

To a kid, that sounded forever away.

Practically another lifetime.

The adults knew how fast a day could disappear.

I didn’t.

By noon I found La’Tonya.

The Carolina sun sat high overhead.

Kids rode bikes through the neighborhood.

Music floated from open windows.

Somebody grilled food somewhere even though the cookout wasn’t supposed to start until later.

Summer doing what summer always does.

Refusing to leave quietly.

For the next couple hours we did absolutely nothing important.

Which is probably why I remember every minute of it.

We walked.

Talked.

Stopped at the corner store.

Bought cold drinks.

Talked some more.

At one point I bought a grape Ring Pop.

Not for me.

For her.

Grape was her favorite.

I knew that because over the last few weeks I had started paying attention.

The little things.

The flavor she picked first.

The way she laughed before finishing a sentence.

How she always said “Mhm” when she thought she was right.

Which was often.

The Ring Pop sat safely in my pocket.

Waiting.

The plan was simple.

I’d give it to her later.

Simple plans have a funny way of meeting real life.

Eventually we ended up near a fire hydrant somebody had opened.

Water blasted into the street.

Kids ran through it fully clothed.

Screaming.

Laughing.

Trying not to slip.

One little boy got soaked from head to toe.

His grandmother yelled from a porch:

“Boy, if you come in this house wet—”

He ran through it again.

The entire block started laughing.

Even La’Tonya.

The water caught the sunlight and threw little rainbows across the street.

Everything looked brighter.

Like summer was putting on one last show.

We sat on a curb watching younger kids play.

Not saying much.

Just enjoying the day.

Then she looked over.

“You really leaving tonight?”

There it was.

The question.

The one we’d both been avoiding.

“Yeah.”

She nodded.

Quiet for a second.

Then:

“You better call.”

“I will.”

“Everybody says that.”

“I’m not everybody.”

She looked at me.

Then smiled.

“Mhm.”

Truthfully?

I wasn’t thinking about phone calls.

I wasn’t thinking about distance.

I wasn’t thinking about school.

I was thinking about tomorrow.

Because tomorrow had always shown up before.

Because kids always think there’s another tomorrow.

Somewhere around two o’clock one of my cousins found me.

“There you are.”

“What?”

“They looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Packing.”

I frowned.

“Already?”

My cousin stared at me.

“Boy, your flight tonight.”

Tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not Monday.

Tonight.

For the first time all day, the clock became real.

The day hadn’t changed.

My understanding of it had.

By the time I got back, the cookout was in full swing.

Family everywhere.

Everywhere.

Cars lined the street.

Folding chairs covered the yard.

Music played from somebody’s radio.

The smell of charcoal and barbecue sat over the whole neighborhood.

One uncle worked the grill.

Another uncle supervised while contributing absolutely nothing.

A Southern tradition.

Everybody hugged.

Everybody laughed.

Everybody ate.

Every few minutes somebody reminded me I was leaving.

As if the suitcase sitting near the front door wasn’t enough.

“You gonna miss us?”

“Nope.”

“Liar.”

That became the theme of the afternoon.

Everybody calling everybody a liar.

Nobody admitting they were going to miss anybody.

The Ring Pop stayed in my pocket.

Through dinner.

Through conversations.

Through cousins running around.

Through family pictures.

Through everything.

I kept waiting for the right moment.

A quiet moment.

A good moment.

A moment when nobody else was around.

The problem with waiting for the perfect moment is that life keeps moving.

One minute somebody handing you a plate.

The next minute somebody asking where your suitcase is.

Then somebody checking the time.

Then somebody loading bags into a trunk.

Suddenly everybody moving faster.

Everybody rushing.

Everybody preparing.

Except me.

I kept thinking we had more time.

Then somewhere between relatives leaving and suitcases getting loaded, I found La’Tonya one more time.

Not for long.

Just a few minutes.

The kind of few minutes that disappear faster than they should.

Neither one of us said much.

By then there wasn’t much left to say.

We already knew I was leaving.

We already knew school was starting.

We already knew things were about to change.

The only question was how much.

Then she stepped forward and hugged me.

Not the quick kind.

Not the awkward kind.

A real hug.

The kind where neither person seems in a hurry to let go.

For a second I just stood there.

Then I hugged her back.

The world kept moving around us.

Cars.

Family.

Music.

People talking.

But none of it seemed very important.

What I remember most is how long she held on.

Like she was trying to borrow a few more seconds.

Like letting go would somehow make everything happen faster.

Eventually she pulled away.

Smiled.

And looked down.

I smiled too.

Neither one of us saying what we were actually thinking.

Then somebody called my name from across the yard.

Reality checking back in.

I reached into my pocket as I started walking away.

The grape Ring Pop was still there.

Her favorite flavor.

Still unopened.

Still waiting.

Just like me.

And for the first time all day, I understood something.

I wasn’t running out of summer.

I had already run out of time.

Chapter 8 — Grandmother’s Wisdom

By the time the cookout ended, the house felt different.

Not quieter.

Just smaller.

Like the day had finally used up all the room it had.

Paper plates sat stacked near the sink.

The smell of barbecue still floated through the air.

Relatives had mostly gone home.

A few lingered.

Southern people never really left.

They slowly faded away.

One conversation at a time.

Suitcases sat near the front door.

Waiting.

Just like everybody else.

Our flight wasn’t leaving until eleven.

But adults treated airports like natural disasters.

They preferred arriving three days early if possible.

The sky had turned dark.

Crickets filled the spaces between conversations.

I sat on the porch steps trying not to think about leaving.

Which meant I was thinking about leaving.

A few minutes later Grandma came outside.

Church fan in one hand.

Wisdom in the other.

She sat beside me.

Didn’t say anything right away.

She never rushed conversations.

Eventually she looked over.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Liar.”

I laughed.

Because she was right.

She always was.

For a few minutes we just listened to the night.

The distant sound of music.

Cars passing.

People laughing somewhere down the block.

Then she spoke.

“You gonna miss that little girl.”

Not a question.

A statement.

I looked away.

Which was apparently answer enough.

Grandma smiled.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

I nodded.

Not trusting myself to say much.

Then she leaned back in her chair.

“You know, life got a funny way of introducing people.”

I looked over.

She was staring out into the darkness.

Not at me.

Not at anything.

Just thinking.

“It also got a funny way of separating folks.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“Sometimes because people change.”

“Sometimes because life change.”

“Sometimes because God got different plans.”

I didn’t like that answer.

Not one bit.

She must’ve seen it on my face.

Because she smiled.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The church fan moved slowly.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Then she pointed it at me.

“But don’t ever hold so tight to something that you forget who really in charge.”

“What that mean?”

“It means you pray about it.”

“Pray about what?”

“Everything.”

She shrugged.

“Her.”

“You.”

“The future.”

“All of it.”

I sat quietly.

Trying to understand.

Failing.

Because I was thinking about next week.

Grandma was thinking about life.

“The older you get,” she said, “the more you realize God sees farther down the road than we do.”

I looked out toward the street.

The neighborhood looked different at night.

Softer.

Calmer.

Like even the block knew summer was ending.

“What if I don’t want things to change?”

That made her smile.

Nobody had prepared me for that smile.

It wasn’t happy.

It wasn’t sad.

It was knowing.

The kind of smile older people get after they’ve lived long enough.

“Baby, things gonna change anyway.”

That answer hit harder than I expected.

Then she reached over and patted my knee.

“The secret ain’t stopping change.”

“The secret is learning how to walk through it.”

For a few minutes neither one of us said anything.

Then she continued.

“Don’t chase people.”

“Don’t force people.”

“Don’t try to hold folks where they don’t belong.”

I looked over.

“Then what do I do?”

“Treat people right.”

Simple.

Just like that.

“Treat people right while they’re with you.”

I thought about the grape Ring Pop still sitting in my pocket.

Waiting for the right moment.

Grandma probably would’ve laughed if I told her that.

She understood something I didn’t.

Life rarely waits for the right moment.

The crickets seemed louder now.

Or maybe the conversation had made me quieter.

Then Grandma looked toward the house.

“You know what else?”

“What?”

“Whatever God chooses, trust Him.”

I frowned.

“Even if I don’t like it?”

She laughed.

“Especially then.”

That wasn’t the answer I wanted.

Which probably meant it was the right one.

She stood up slowly.

The church fan folded in her hand.

Then she looked down at me.

“God loves both of y’all more than y’all love yourselves.”

I never forgot that.

Not because I understood it then.

Because I didn’t.

Not really.

Understanding came years later.

The porch light buzzed softly overhead.

The screen door opened and closed somewhere inside the house.

Reality waiting.

The airport waiting.

Life waiting.

Grandma touched my shoulder.

“Come on.”

“We leaving soon.”

I nodded.

But didn’t move.

Not yet.

Then she smiled.

The same smile.

The knowing one.

“Get some sleep on that plane.”

“I ain’t tired.”

“Rest anyway.”

I laughed.

“Why?”

She started toward the door.

Then stopped.

Just long enough to answer.

“Some things easier to understand after you’ve had a little time.”

Then she disappeared inside.

Leaving me alone on the porch.

Thinking about La’Tonya.

Thinking about tomorrow.

Thinking about all the time I thought I still had.

And for the first time all summer…

I wondered if Grandma was trying to prepare me for something.

The problem was, I thought she was talking about tomorrow.

She was talking about much more than that.

Chapter 9 — Blessing or Lesson?

When we got back to New Jersey, I kept my promise.

I called.

At first, it was easy.

The excitement carried everything.

Every phone call felt important.

Every conversation felt like it needed to last forever.

We talked about school.

Friends.

Teachers.

Basketball.

Music.

Nothing.

Everything.

The kind of conversations young people have when they are still learning how to miss somebody.

For a while, it worked.

The distance didn’t seem that far.

North Carolina felt close enough to reach through a telephone cord.

Then life happened.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

Just gradually.

She started high school.

I started eighth grade.

Homework showed up.

Schedules showed up.

Responsibilities showed up.

The same thing happening in New Jersey was happening in North Carolina.

At first we talked every day.

Then every other day.

Then mostly weekends.

Then whenever we could.

Every phone call ended the same way.

“Talk to you tomorrow.”

The problem was tomorrow eventually became next week.

Then next week became whenever.

Nobody got angry.

Nobody betrayed anybody.

Nobody became the villain.

Life simply got louder.

And distance started winning arguments neither one of us knew we were having.

One day I realized I couldn’t remember the last time we talked.

Not because she wasn’t important.

Not because I stopped caring.

Because nobody told us it was the last conversation.

That’s the funny thing about some goodbyes.

They don’t announce themselves.

You don’t know you’re standing inside the last moment until it’s already gone.

Years passed.

Life moved forward.

The way life is supposed to work.

New schools.

New friends.

New experiences.

New chapters.

But every now and then, something would remind me.

A basketball court.

A summer song.

A movie on television.

The smell of charcoal.

A kid running through a fire hydrant.

And suddenly I was back in North Carolina.

Back on that block.

Back in that summer.

Back when tomorrow felt guaranteed.

And since we’re being honest…

I should probably admit something.

I lied about my age.

Not by much.

Just enough to sound a little cooler than I actually was.

At the time, she was heading into high school.

I was heading into eighth grade.

Back then one year felt like ten.

I figured sounding older improved my chances.

Looking back?

La’Tonya probably knew the truth the entire time.

She beat me at basketball.

Outsmarted me in conversations.

And somehow always seemed one step ahead.

Chances are she wasn’t fooled nearly as long as I thought she was.

Then again, I did eventually win the rematch.

At least according to the scoreboard.

Whether I actually won is still up for debate.

For years, I thought the story was about getting a girlfriend.

The basketball game.

The movie.

The kiss.

The phone calls.

The butterflies.

Then I got older.

And I realized Grandma had been teaching me something much bigger.

People come into your life for different reasons.

Some stay a few weeks.

Some stay a few years.

Some stay forever.

And none of us get to decide which is which.

What we do get to decide is how we treat them while they’re here.

Years later, people sometimes ask what happened to La’Tonya.

The truth is simple.

Life happened.

School happened.

Distance happened.

Time happened.

The same things that happen to millions of young people every year.

But that’s never been the question that mattered most.

The real question is:

Was she a blessing?

Or was she a lesson?

Grandma would’ve probably smiled at that question.

Because she already knew the answer.

Most people are both.

La’Tonya taught me about courage.

About paying attention.

About timing.

About appreciation.

About letting go.

She taught me that some moments become valuable because they end.

And Grandma taught me something even bigger.

Pray about it.

Trust God with it.

Treat people right while they’re with you.

And don’t spend your life trying to hold on to what God is teaching you to appreciate.

The older I get, the more grateful I become for that summer.

Not because it lasted.

Because it happened.

Because somewhere in a small North Carolina neighborhood, a girl laughed at my jokes, beat me at basketball, said “Mhm” when she knew she was right, and made a Jersey boy think summer would last forever.

And somewhere on a porch, a wise grandmother tried to prepare him for the day he would learn it wouldn’t.

Grandma was right.

As usual.

Life introduces people.

Life separates people.

And God guides both journeys.

Thirty years later, I don’t remember every phone call.

I don’t remember every conversation.

But I still remember a girl named La’Tonya.

A grape Ring Pop.

A church fan moving back and forth on a North Carolina porch.

And a grandmother who taught me that some people come into your life as a blessing.

Some come as a lesson.

And if you’re lucky…

They leave you with both.

Dear Future Wife,

That memory taught me something I didn’t understand until years later. People come and go. Some arrive as a blessing. Some arrive as a lesson. If we’re lucky, they become both.

What I want for us is simple. I never want to become so focused on tomorrow that I forget to appreciate today. I want to notice the little things, hold gratitude close, and never assume that time is unlimited. Some of life’s greatest gifts aren’t measured by how long they stay, but by how deeply they shape our hearts.

“The secret things belong unto the Lord our God…” — Deuteronomy 29:29

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🏷️ Kevin W. Simpson™ 💡

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