No More Curbs
Updated: Jun 6
The slightest bit of hesitation had matured into a full stop, momentum almost forcing my upper body forward. I was able to save it, but only after that moment of terror.
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It happened just outside the store at Speedy gas station (where I buy my cowboy hats). This moment was somehow different than others that have come before it. I felt more risk, more hesitation, more uncertainty, more uneasiness, more unsteadiness, more everything...more fear. The seconds felt like minutes as I began to feel the weight of eyes upon me: "Will he go for it? Or will he back-off? What's he doing? What do you think he has? Should we offer to help him?"
"Come on," I said to myself as I seesaw'd back and forth-- yes...no...yes...no. "You've got this...ok, 1, 2, 3...no." My adrenaline had risen like a fast, rising tide. Decision time.
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I backed off. "Nope," I said sternly to myself aloud. I never use that word; in fact, for some reason I have an aversion to it, but it seemed a perfect fit for the occasion. Seconds later, I declared, "No more curbs," with the finality of a flickering flame being snuffed out. "It's ok...Move on."
That was a few weeks ago. Since then there have been other signs-- a dangerous fall, more difficulty with stairs and raising a glass to my lips, a spilled cup of coffee. Walking. These are all signs and indications. While I lean toward ignoring them, I'm inclined to confront the elephant in the room. Now that I think of it, there are a few elephants in the room...a herd? Regardless, the largest is "the MOVE."
I have been putting it off and putting it off far too long, but now my commitment to myself is to be elsewhere by September 1. While I don't know where, I do know that it will be safer and better; a new chapter, a new adventure. And I love an adventure!
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B L A C K L I V E S M A T T E R
"These ceremonials in honor of white supremacy,
performed from babyhood, slip from the
conscious mind down deep into muscles...
and become difficult to tear out."
Killers of the Dream (Lillian Smith, 1949)
from White Fragility (Robin Diangelo, 2018)
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