Don't Cry for Me

by Daniel Black

“Get you a man before you tell me how to keep mine!” she shrieked

And I know that's right!

Hurt is hard to forget, especially from a mother. And healing is never easy for black men.

Now I saw that she wanted a free son, yes, but not a different one.

“How can he respect you when you treat him so bad?” She paused a moment, then said, finally, “He’ll never forgive you for this. Never.”

Standing before me, in all its glory, was a portrait of my past—our land in Arkansas.

Viewers moved on, but I stood there, hypnotized by your landscape and your indescribable talent. I think the fact that you had painted it at all, that you had remembered our time together, made me happier than I’d been in a long time. I was proud of you that day. I shook your hand firmly, if you recall, and said, right in front of everyone, “That’s the best damn picture I’ve ever seen, boy. You shonuff got a gift!” I should’ve said more. Should’ve hugged you freely and rubbed your head. Or something.

This was her dream: you being yourself while she and I celebrated.

had a way of feeling things that went beyond what I could comprehend. The name you assigned the painting only weakened me further: Down Home.

That landscape really was a masterpiece. And you are the most talented person I’ve ever known.

I remember the day he left. You tried not to show it—the weight of love lost—but it hung heavy on you like a wet coat.

I thought of you all the time, but I made no effort to know you further.

But you didn’t need my permission, my approval for anything anymore. You had your own ideas, and all I could do was watch you change.

You stepped toward the front door to go back inside. All the courage I could muster allowed me to say, “Take care of yourself, you hear?” At first, you didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure you’d heard me. Then, when I looked up, you looked down with those big, beautiful, sad brown eyes and huffed, “I will, Dad.” I should’ve stood and hugged you. Should’ve insisted on taking you to the bus station. Or at least riding along with you and your friend. Should’ve put some extra money in your pocket. Should’ve asked for a contact number. Instead, I sulked and went home.

It wasn’t the embrace that weakened me; it was the strength of his hold, the way he squeezed for dear life.

In that moment, I realized I hardly knew you at all. If someone had asked me your favorite color, your best friend’s name, your favorite book, your greatest fear, your shirt size—I wouldn’t have known.

The day you graduated from Lincoln, which certainly stands as the proudest day of my life, I thought to grab you and sing your praises. Yet the last time I’d touched you, really held you in my arms, you probably didn’t remember. Neither did I.

My first realization, during that dark time, was that I had rarely called you son. I always called you boy.

Then, she touched me. Her soft, perfumed hand on my shoulder sent chills all over me. That touch had been my joy once.

The idea scared me, to be honest. But it excited me, too. Here I was, for the first time in my life, considering that God might look like me. Me? A poor black country fella who ain’t never been much? I can’t explain to you what this did to me. All I can say is that it changed me forever.

I stared at a blank ceiling, hoping, one day, to assure you I could never betray you the way Elijah Muhammad betrayed Malcolm, although you probably wouldn’t have agreed.

The day I finished the book, I read the last sentence aloud then closed the cover slowly. It had opened my eyes as if, my entire life, I’d been asleep. I’d never known I could decide how to live, how to be in this world. Never knew I had the right. My people had submitted to life, and dealt with it the best they could. We didn’t question

I’m sure you’ve not had any kids. Or been with a woman for that matter. But if you had, I would’ve loved them better than I loved you. They would’ve gotten the new me, the father you should’ve had, and you would’ve known how much I’ve changed.

Fear found no place in him; instead, it lived in us whenever he arrived.

She tried to befriend me a time or two, but I rejected her. If the fellas had seen us talking, I would’ve been ridiculed. Their acceptance, back then, meant more than her kindness. If only I could apologize now, although I don’t think God or Hannah would honor it.

But adults are always wrong about children’s emotional capacity. Children don’t carry the weight of history, so their capacity for heavy things might be greater.

I’ve spent a lifetime wondering if she would’ve loved me. But of course she would’ve. She was my mother.

Knowledge is a funny thing, Isaac. It informs by exposing. It shows you precisely how much you don’t know.

Still, after beholding that shirt, I felt ashamed. I envied this woman and her daughter, the way she bore and boasted her child’s identity. There was something honorable about that, a sacred link between the two that felt so...right. Every child wants their parents’ applause, and I had not applauded you. I’d celebrated your efforts, but not your being. Because I didn’t agree. But the words on the shirt asked me, Do you have to agree?

And I’m sorry most that I can’t remember his name.

We were close. Of course we were. I was his grandfather.

I was so disappointed. I almost called you back, but instead I held the receiver as regret gathered in my heart. I couldn’t say what was wrong because I promised your mother I wouldn’t. I tried to sound lighthearted and cheerful, but I failed. I never did say I love you. That’s the reason I’d called. That’s what I’d promised your mother I’d say.

You laid your head in your mother’s lap while she closed her eyes and assured you you’d be okay. I should’ve joined you, at your mother’s feet, weeping for all she’d been to you. To us. Instead, I sat on the sofa and waited.

Nurturing felt awkward to me. Now, it’s all I long for.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, I could’ve sworn I heard Death cackling still.

All she ever wanted was to go to school, and you were the closest she got.

This broke me completely. Too relatable

I said, Hey, son,

Finally!

When you arrived, we hugged—the second or third time in our lives—like business partners closing a deal.

I cried that night. I missed your mother for sure, but it was your words that devastated me. You wanted nothing to do with me. You thought I wanted nothing to do with you. You had no intention of sharing your life with me, and that hurt more than your mother’s death. That’s right. I watched her die; I knew it was coming. But I’d hoped that you and I, after burying Rachel, might find common ground and build some sort of life that included both of us. Now I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

It was yours, I told you, the house, since your mother was gone. I’d paid it off recently, and this was part of your inheritance. You looked around and said softly, “I don’t want it. I’ll never live here again.” Too hurt to respond, I simply nodded. I’ve worked a lifetime to own this house, and you don’t even want it? Fine! I’ll keep it for myself. No need paying rent elsewhere, I decided, when I own an empty house.

All I knew, all I felt, was loneliness. The perfect life I’d dreamed with your mother never came to pass. Our living room became my personal tomb: dark, quiet, lifeless. Everything I’d loved I’d destroyed. You don’t know—I hope you don’t know—the feeling of losing everyone you ever loved. You’re left with only your own hurt and regret. All you do is relive mistakes and wish you could undo them. You never can.

“Forgive me, God, for the way I’ve treated my son. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but keep him safe, keep him in your care. He’s all I got.” In my mind, I saw your mother, smiling. “Bring him back to me. I don’t always understand him, but teach me, Father God, how to love him.” Years later, I realized I had prayed the wrong prayer. I should’ve asked God to send me to you, but I didn’t. So I spent years waiting for you—while you’ve spent a lifetime waiting for me.

But I was home, and, for some reason, I felt the need to be there. Perhaps I’d gotten old and sentimental, for even the grass seemed greener, trees taller, fields more golden than I remembered. Then I smiled: this was the scene you had painted all those years before.

“Yessiree! A disobedient child was the ruin of a people, we thought, so we didn’t allow it. Plus, we needed someone beneath us, someone we could beat and low-grade—the way white folks had done us.” He yelped. “A cryin shame is what it was.”

No one should diminish themselves to prove their love.

All I wanted was to look you in the face and tell you I’m sorry. I had wounded you beyond my capacity to heal you.

If you get nothing else from this letter, understand that I never knew how to love. I dreamed of it, but I never experienced it. What I knew was pain. So that’s what I gave you.

I hope that, after you read this, you’ll return my pain to me. But you might not. We get used to it, the weight of pain, and when it threatens to go, we sometimes hold on to it for dear life. But there’s no joy while it lingers near.

Love doesn’t make us perfect; it makes us want to be. By the time you discover this, your imperfections have done their damage.

Last night, I lifted myself from the sofa with every ounce of strength I could muster, and fell to my knees and cried out, I’m sorry, Isaac. You weren’t there, but you were there—standing before me, disbelieving that this day had come. You were the father and I the son because I needed your grace, your forgiveness. Your mother had said it would come to this.

Don’t cry for me, son. I’ve cried enough for myself.