Wishes Do Come True
As I rummaged through the myriad boxes of books that lay in my dad’s attic, I was astonished by how much my dad read. Where did he get the time to read all these books, tend to my mom, raise my sister and I, work, and share the Gospel? I just shrugged it off with the idea that we all get the same 24 hours in a day, he was simply more diligent in how he used his. I realized how even after his death, I am still learning from him.
Christine emerged from the doorway and playfully said, “You tryna be like pops and become an avid reader too huh?”
My reply was unintentionally sharp, “We all wanna be like our role models.” I was still pondering over my dad’s work habits.
“Well, dad,” she said sarcastically. “I just found another set of boxes, with a note that said don’t open only for you.”
My voice was laced with skepticism, and I asked, “Forreal?”
“Yeah bruh,” she replied. “I’m going to the mall with some friends. I need to get out of this house for a while. The pressure is weighing me down.”
“Ok, see you later,” the words never found their way out my mouth. She walked away dragging her sadness behind her like a shadow. My silence was the product of curiosity for what was in the box. I pondered about this mysterious box.
Realizing I didn’t reply, I broke the trance, ran to the door, and screamed in a frantic state, “I love you! Clear your mind!”
My sister looked back in a state of confusion before getting in the car and leaving. I darted to the room, honestly not knowing if I ran or if I flew. Once having made it to the room, I glanced around as if I were about to cross the street to make sure no cars or people were coming. The room was flooded with light. It had a giant panoramic window that sucked in light from outside. I closed the blackout curtains, I wanted to be alone. I wanted stillness and solitude to surround me.
I stood before the box with a sense of pride and caution. The box was mahogany and had chips on it, as if someone had banged it against a wall. It only had one brass opening that had a pull mechanism. I opened the box, inside was a letter. It read: “Solomon asked for wisdom.” My father’s signature rested at the bottom. Confusing, but that was my father. Always giving you half the information, and expects you to deduce an answer as if the whole piece was available. Even though he had passed away, I grew frustrated with him as if he were alive. This letter reminded me how he stubbornly refused to improve his communication, and now that I needed him to communicate clearly, he couldn’t. I laughed propelling myself out of uncertainty. Yet, I was paralyzed by the words. That was all that was in the box. Just that letter. I placed the letter back in the box and walked back to the ocean of books in his library. My wife called me, and I could hear the excitement in her voice before she noticed the flat tone in mine.
She asked, “What’s wrong?” I paused and contemplated if I should tell her, but I decided not to because it was something that I needed to figure out on my own.
I said, “Nothing baby, I’m fine.” She cared for me, and knew me well. I assume that she discerned it was my father’s death that provoked my staleness.
“Well,” she said in a disappointed tone. “I’ll call you later. I love you.” Again, I found myself speaking in my head and not verbally.
In a demanding tone she said, “Devin!”. The trance broke.
I said, “I love you too.”
She hung up, and once again I was alone with tranquility and seclusion, trying to decipher the Da Vinci Code my father left me. After 30 minutes of cognitive strain, I decided to take a nap in order to clear my mind. There isn’t anything some rest can’t solve. I slipped on my father’s silk scarlet robe and looked down at his initials embroidered on the inside. He was always a fashionable man and with that thought, I fell asleep.
I woke up 30 minutes later, with restored energy and a fresh mind. I optimistically went back to decipher my father’s note. I found myself once more before the box, searching for a new clue. Taking up his letter and fixing on it as if I met my match in a staring contest. I hoped that the letter would cower under my gaze and release its meaning. After five minutes, the letter won. Frustrated at my loss to an inanimate object and no progress with my search, I stuffed the note in my robe’s pocket and threw the box on the floor. To my surprise a loud click alarmed me. It was the box! I approached, cautiously, like a rookie white policeman walking up to a ’97 Honda with tint at night. Underneath the box was a compartment that opened from the impact. Excited at this new clue, I rushed towards the box. I felt like a dentist examining a patient’s tooth. To my surprise, there was a mirror located in the bottom part of the box. However, the force in which it hit the ground caused three hairline fractures. I gazed deeply into the broken mirror, getting lost in what I saw. At that moment, everything overwhelmed me. My father’s premature death; this letter; this box; life. I became discouraged and wept. I wept as I did at my father’s funeral. My tears rolled down my face and fell onto the mirror and seeped between the cracks. Suddenly, light peeked from the fractures like a rainbow after a thunderstorm. I squinted my watery eyes in disbelief— the new discovery jerked me from my sorrows. I dropped the box on my father’s bed in shock—I almost fainted from what I saw.
My father stood before me in the mirror.
I eagerly broke the silence with, “Dad?” My tone was a mixture of excitement and skepticism.
He looked at me, full of youth and vigor. The man I saw in the casket last week was no more. His melanin was glowing as if he had access to Coco-Butta only sold in Wakanda. Although he seemed darker, his skin had an elegant luster. His face was clear from any imperfections as the scars he once had were smoothed out. His bald head was clothed with a thick dark mane, like that from the coat of a black bear. His frame resembled that of an Oak tree. His eyes were what shocked me the most. When I looked into them, I saw myself. Not like I was in the glaze of light in his pupils, no. I saw my future. I leaned in, but the fractures on the glass distorted the picture. I stared more intently trying to figure out what I was looking at.
He interjected, “Devin is that my robe?”
I froze in fear and mumbled, “I just want to be like you.”
His laugh thundered. He explained to me that he is in God’s presence, Heaven, he called it. Then, he began to explain something, but I couldn’t understand the words he spoke. It sounded similar to a combination of Zulu and Swahili. Even though I was lost, his loving eyes gripped me. I was overwhelmed to see him again, and I could care less what he was talking about. All of a sudden the note crossed my mind.
I asked him, pulling it from my pocket, “Dad, what does this mean.”
He looked over his shoulder, as if to get permission before he spoke further. He turned around and explained to me that God has blessed our family. God ordained me the opportunity to ask for one thing, just like he did for Solomon.
“Now, is the time to make a request,” he said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Me, why? Who am I that God would be so gracious? What have I done, what have I accomplished, why not Christine?
As if he was reading my thoughts, my father calmly said, “Devin, Solomon asked for wisdom.” As if to influence my answer.
I paused and took a deep breath, “Ok, I got it. Give me the wisdom,” My dad began to smile. “To love and care and tend to my wife. I want to love her only second to God, and let the wisdom flow over into how I raise my family.”
My dad stared at me, even in his glorified state he was confused.
Feeling guilty, I explained, “What’s a black man without a black woman? I just want to be like you. I can’t change the world without a solid team, and it starts with her and my kids.”
“Interesting choice son,” he said, as if he wanted to say more.
“Devin! Devin! What are you doing!” Christine was screaming at me. I woke up from my sleep, still in a haze. She continued to harass and pester me.
She asked, “Why did you fall asleep with the lights on and in dad’s silk robe!” I was trying to gain consciousness so that I could reply.
My annoyance grew. “Christine, what do you want?”
She looked at me with bugged eyes and said,“Your wife is pregnant, I’m going to be an aunt!”
I sat up and got out of bed and drunkenly stumbled as I tried to comprehend what I just heard. Frantically, I looked for the note. Realizing I forgot I put it in my pocket, I pulled it out, uncrumpled it and it read: Solomon asked for wisdom. My father’s signature rested at the bottom.
“So many [Black men] were fathers in biology only. ”
