Dear Bubba

I thought about you last night. I miss you. I wonder what we would be talking about these days. What your views would be on the world. On Obama. Healthcare. I wondered if you would have had a blog and what you would write about if you did.

I am well. Some days I am happy by choice and some days I just wake up that way. Either way, I find my way to seeing clearly and smiling.

I talk about you a lot. I tell people about the books you used to get for me to read. Books about prison, about revolutions, books that made me think. Because that was the point, right? To make me think. I remember you used to tell me that "the truth is always something you have to search for." I'm finding my way with that. I'm learning new truth about the truth. I'm discovering that there is no "the" truth but many true ways of viewing almost everything. Mostly, I'm learning my truth about what I'm speaking on, taking a postion on.

My son, Uraeus is a thinker. I taught him to play chess too. Don played him and said he plays well. I know that you understand what Don's stamp of chess approval means. Uraeus plays his life like chess in many ways. In ways like you. Watching. Anticipating the other man's move. Weighing the options of his own. His sense of humor, thought processes and understandings are beyond his years. And he is still a kid. Lying about his homework. Doing just enough to keep grown folks off his back but not nearly his full potiential. And he is wise. So wise. His conversation is amazing. I bet you know all of this somehow. I bet you have followed him to school. Sat with him in class. Coached him in chess.

Robin is as beautiful as ever. I saw her at the last family reunion in Chicago. She looks more and more like you. I never noticed it before, but I see you in her face, her smile.

I published some of your letters and journal entries here on this blog. It was my way of sharing you with the world and with family members who didn't have a copy. Therman printed a copy years ago and sent it to the brothers and sisters. I got my mother's. I am the keeper of valuable family jewels. Your journal is my favorite.

I wish I had more pictures of you. I wish there were more pictures of you. I suppose there are. Somewhere. There's the one of you on the edge of the white and green couch with the cigeratte in your mouth. The one of you with the family where you seem so lost in thought (or something) you almost look pasted into the photo. I bet that's how you felt often. Cut and pasted into the family. The world. I feel that way too. Often.

My dad and grandfather passed away last year. I bet you know that too. My grandfather is finally reconnected with my grandmother and I know that he is happy. You and my dad have always been cool. Too cool for school sometimes. He has you now. Show him around the skies. I miss you both so much. I am still crying over my dad. I'm crying over myself missing him. It comes at the oddest moments. I am reminded of a smell. A joke. A funny story of his, as you know there were many. I'm still going through it. I was that way with you. I cried all the time. By myself in my own corner. I don't cry so much about you anymore. I am able to hear your voice in my life now. Hear what you would say to me. I feel you. Around me. Listening. Guiding. I will grow to feel this way about my dad. Although I always feel him. I'm still sad about it.

Well, I love you. I know you love me. One day, Bubba. One day.