The tears I’ve cried over the past few months have come from a variety of sources.
There have been angry ones; furiously wiped away from burning cheeks.
There have been helpless ones; cried for myself and for others with sadder, more painful stories than mine.
There have been sad ones; left to run unchecked and dampen pillows and shirt collars and on one occasion, the t-shirt of a very understanding friend.
And once or twice, there have been tears of gratefulness.
Last night I cried the latter on the phone with my parents when I told them about this and about other things that happened in the past that I thought they didn’t need to or shouldn’t know and was met with nothing but love and support.
I forget sometimes that when faced with an apparent mountain, those most equipped to help me scale it are the ones that named me, raised me, fed me okra soup and Jheri curled my hair until my pre-teen pleas rescued me. My parents, they are marvels and although their awesomeness is etched on my heart, I sometimes forget to brush away the cobwebs put there by trials, tribulations and the folly of being too cynical to stop and smell the roses.
And now there is talk of cake and visits and there are silent prayers sent skywards for my health and happiness; and on my phone there is a text message reminding me that there isn’t anything I could do that would dent the love that exists between parents and their children. There is comfort in the words we are so proud of you.
August has been a tough and giddy month. My head has spent time in the clouds and I have dabbled in escapism both healthy and not so. I have stories to tell and they have been, in fits and bursts through gchat, email and long phone calls that start at dusk and wrap up in the wee hours. There are new faces and the resurfacing of old ones and though there has been more than one occasion where I have lost my footing and slipped, I think with the end of August, I am myself again (the snark will start up again forthwith).
Thanks for sticking around if you have. I know it’s been quiet in these parts.
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Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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