Anchor Point
For your 65th trip around the Sun I got you a used book. It was a gift that chose me, with the help of the co-owner of TeaLee’s, friendly referred to as “The Book Man.” He asked me questions about you while he scanned the spines, his fingers lightly touched them as if he was feeling for a pulse.
“Is he a Race man?” The Book Man’s voice sounded sweet on the surface with the trembling tenor only obtained with age. I was increasingly aware of my own pulse that bounced the beads of fast-drying, post-kickboxing sweat. I froze, unsure if I was able to crack open your covers with enough confidence to inhale the aroma of your well-worn pages that wafted my way. Hopeful that the familial features passed on to me from you were enough of an answer—they rarely feel like they are—I affirmed my ancestry, our ancestry, and moved onto the next question. It always makes me nervous to answer on your behalf, never sure if I’ve stolen away enough parts of you. I’ve got a whole trove of treasures tucked away, trinkets I’ve taken during moments made magical, however fleeting they may be.
He pulled out a brick of a book—red, but too blue for your liking. After spending hours on our road trip being awakened each time you pointed to a red vehicle —too red, not quite blue enough, one shade between the last pickup we saw and that Camry 12 miles back—I at least felt confident enough to choose your favorite shade. We’re both particular, some may say to the point of being persnickety, but I don’t mind. I feel pride in any likeness we bear. Who knew asking your favorite color would reveal so much? The most benign questions tend to bring about your most revealing answers. They seep and sink into the space we stretch ourselves into while traveling long distances.
He ran his hand over the rough cover, the worn edges of which gave its age away, and handed it to me. It was a first edition Frederick Douglass. With my eyes wide, I took it in my hands and carefully cracked it open, nervous that my trembling fingers would cause a tear. I closed my eyes and breathed in Douglass’s words. I was back in our living room, excitedly expelling the 3rd grade history lesson I learned, while you listened closely, acutely aware they had made Sophia Auld the hero of his own story. Over the years, you’ve gifted me a ring of keys that unlock lessons I’ve had to learn, relearn, and unlearn in some cases. With your cheeks flushed, full of pride, the key—to whatever you decided to fashion yourself an expert—jingles in your voice. That day, the key rang clear: to interrogate the lens through which I had learned those lessons, and in turn, to question the lessons we learn about who is allowed to and how one is allowed to move through life. You wouldn’t know it then, but that day you became the hero of my story. Something I’ve learned, relearned, and have begun to unlearn as I use your keys, and a few of my own, to ignite my own drive.
On your last visit to Colorado, you told me that you worry you’ve made my life complicated, but I question how you don’t know you’re the key to everything? You see, the key to answering the questions that are bottled up, bobbing somewhere in the Pacific, is our connection. I’ve spent a lot of time waiting for those answers to wash up, and maybe they will someday, but most likely not. In the meantime, I hope you know I’ve found enough meaning in the messages you’ve sent. You are my anchor point.
Love,
Jazaroo
