Solo

by Kwame Alexander

My gravestone will read: Here lies a young man who died inside the gaze of a woman.

In my house guitars are the holy grail, the keepers of our secrets and our prayers,

Youngblood, don’t you know rock and roll is just the blues minus the hope plus a bunch of screaming electric guitars?

Life is a mountain, Youngblood. Nobody said the climb was gonna be easy. You gotta choose your route. Get your gear. Breathe. Clear your mind. And enjoy the journey.

Ever heard the sound of goodbye? The way a door closes. The way a deer looks. The way a busted bird sings. The ending of the world. The wailing of a hollowed heart.

I can see the stars through holes in the roof held up by four logs shooting up from a dirt floor with rows and rows of chairs and a cross, which lets me know this is also a church. God help me.

So, where in America do you live, Blade? Hollywood, California. Ahh! The Land of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Yep, the land of fake angels and broken wings.

I hear the sound of God’s hands clapping and watch the storm pour in sheets so fast and furious I wonder if this place is going to cave in.

you can’t just come kiss a girl because you miss a girl.

Why do we need mirrors when we can see the reflection of our goodness in the way others react to us?

Right now, I feel scared yet full of Joy, is what I want to whisper in her ear. Yep, I’m okay.

At the mountain gap we are a moving portrait, carrying dirt and stones in our shoes, our voices in the echoes, the music in our skin, the sounds of our feet thumping, and Rutherford’s shrieks and screeches as he starts dancing around like a mad man with ants in his pants.

She could wipe air and pretend magic on my wound. It wouldn’t matter, because she is medicine.

She’s as quiet as the clouds, as wise as the mountain, and as stellar as the sunrise,

We’ll never know. No one can ever explain a tragedy. We can only write about it. Sing about it. Dance with it. Move through it.