Poetry and Wisdom

Ten poems about discovering who we are beneath our performances, expectations, and defenses.

Met a stranger in my bathroom mirror.

Light buzzin' over the sink, toothbrush in my hand, and I'm lookin' at a man I can't stand. He has my eyes. Has my daddy's forehead, wide like a windshield, flat as a field. Has that scar over the brow from when I was seven, flew off a big kid's handlebars and saw stars.

Same face. Same frame. Same place.

But I don't like him.

He's the one who smile for the picture and cuss in the car. Shake a man's hand firm, look him in the eye, says "Everything's good, everything's straight"... then come home and take it out on whoever is standing closest. Slam a cabinet. Bark at his wife 'bout the thermostat, the dishes, the cat. Calls it stress. Call it a long day. Calls it anything but what it is... and leaves it at that.

He's a coward with good posture.

Sharp crease. No closure.

I said, "When did you get like this?"

And he said it right back to me. Same mouth. Same time.

That's the part nobody tell you. There is no stranger. There is no "somewhere along the way I lost myself." I ain't lose anything. I traded it. Traded it for a pension at a job I hated. Sold it cheap and called it "made it." Traded it every time I said "yes" with my teeth and "no" with my whole chest... then made everybody around me pay the difference.

My wife paid. My kids paid.

Every debt I ran up... they stayed and they paid.

And the worst of it?

He looks like Daddy.

Mad like Daddy. Sad like Daddy.

Not just the forehead. The jaw. The way he hold his coffee like it owe him money. The tired in his eyes that turn mean if you push it. I spent forty years swearin' I'd never be that man... and here I am in my drawers at the sink, lookin' at him, and he's looking at me like I'm the disappointment.

Maybe I am.

Maybe that's the whole exam.

I put my hand on the glass.

He put his on it too.

I wanted to say somethin' kind. Something out of one of those self-help books. "I see you. I forgive you. You're enough."

Couldn't get it out.

Every word I tried came out tasting like a lie in my mouth.

So I just stood there. Toothpaste on my chin. Gray in my beard. Two men who know exactly what the other one did...

and here's what finally hit me.

You can't make peace with a man you won't call by his name.

Not "stressed." Not "tired." Not "a long day."

Coward. Say it.

Say it plain. Say it loud. Say it before you pray it.

So I said it. Out loud. To the glass.

Didn't fix a thing. But it was the first true word that mirror had heard in years. The first one that didn't come dressed up in tears...

and you can't build a house on a lot you keep lyin' about.

So I'm building now. One true word at a time.

Slow work... but the ground is finally mine.

There's a cemetery in my chest.

No flowers. No visitin' hours. Just rows of things I never said, laid down in the dirt with the grass growin' over.

And I'm going to be honest with you... they ain't all sweet.

Folks think unsaid words is all "I love you" and "thank you, Mama." Some of 'em is. But some of them are ugly. Some of them are mean. Some of them are true in a way I kept washed and folded and never looked at.

Right there by the gate? My oldest friend. Twelve years we haven't spoken. Everybody think he wronged me. I let 'em think it. Truth is I borrowed that money and never paid it back, and when he asked, I called him greedy in front of the whole block so nobody would look at me. Turned my debt into his disgrace... and wore that lie like a clean face.

Never said that.

Over in the corner? My daughter's recital. Told her I got stuck at work. I was on a barstool next to a man I don't even remember, 'cause sittin' in a gym full of proud daddies made me feel like a fraud.

She asked me after, in the car, "Did you see me, Daddy?" And I said, "I saw you, baby." Looked her right in the face. Lyin' to a child in a sequin dress... then tucking her in like I'd done my best.

Never said that.

And Mama...

Mama has the biggest headstone. 'Cause when she got sick, I was embarrassed by her. The wig. The smell of the medicine. The way she called me by my daddy's name at the end. I'd visit, sit by the door, check my phone, leave early. She asked me one time, "Baby... are you ashamed of me?"

I said, "No, Mama."

That's the one I will never get to dig up.

She's gone.

The truth stayed.

Six feet down... and still unpaid.

People say, "It's never too late." That's a lie they sell in greetin' cards. Sometimes it's too late.

Silence don't bury anything. It just keep it cold. Keeps it fresh. Keeps it whole. And every night, walking those rows, I find those words still breathin'.

Still waitin'.

Still sayin' my name... in her voice.

I could call that man. Number's still in my phone. My thumb has been hoverin' over it since Easter.

Ain't pressed it.

And standin' in that cemetery in my chest, I finally figured somethin' out.

Silence ain't somethin' I did once, way back then.

It's somethin' I choose. Every mornin'. Fresh. Like a shirt I button. Like a lie I press.

Mama's grave is closed. That one I can't dig up.

But my old friend is still answerin' his phone.

And the only difference between those two headstones...

is one of 'em still has a dial tone.

So I pressed it. Heard it ring.

And for the first time in twelve years... I'm not the one hiding from the thing.

Everybody love the smilin' man.

Remember your birthday. Bring the extra chairs. Carries the cooler, stay to clean, crack the joke when the room get tense so nobody has to feel anything heavy.

Life of the party.

Glue of the family.

Liar.

'Cause let me tell you what that smile really is. It ain't kindness. It's a fence. Nice white one, painted every spring, roses on it, porch light bright... and a dog behind it that'll bite.

I smile so you won't ask. And if you ask anyway, I smile harder... till you feel foolish for askin'.

That's a skill. Took me years. Took me smiling through funerals and swallowing tears.

Behind it? Bills on the counter I ain't opened since summer. A marriage on mute... we talk 'bout the gutters and the kids and nothin' else. A son who don't call, and I know why, and I'm not going to say it here. A lump on my side I've been "keepin' an eye on" since spring, which means I've been not lookin' at it.

Doctor said "pre-diabetic" and slid the pamphlet 'cross the desk. I smiled. Threw it away in the parkin' lot. Hit the drive-thru on the way home. Large. Extra sauce. Ate it in the driveway so my wife wouldn't see the bag. Smile on my face. Grease on the rag.

That's who the smilin' man is.

And here comes the ugliest part.

I resent the folks I help.

Love them out loud... and hate it by myself.

Every one who calls when they need a ride, a loan, a shoulder, a speech at the funeral. I smile. I show up. I'm "so good like that."

And on the drive home I'm mad at every one of 'em... for somethin' they ain't even know they did. 'Cause nobody made me say yes. I volunteered.

Resentment is just the interest on every yes you ain't mean.

Then Sunday I'm on the front row. "Blessed and highly favored." Hands up. Smile wide enough to drive a truck through.

A little one at the cookout looked up at me, five years old, and said, "Unc, why are your eyes sad when your mouth is happy?"

And you know what I did?

I smiled.

Tickled her till she forgot she asked.

That's how good I am. I can lie to a child and make her laugh while I do it.

A smile ain't a feelin'. It's a door. Painted and polished down to the floor. And I've been answerin' it so long...

I forgot I'm the one livin' behind it.

So I made the call. Booked the doctor. Opened one bill. Sat my wife down at the kitchen table and told her one true thing... no smile on it.

She didn't flinch. She just held my hand.

Turns out that door was never locked from the outside...

and the light comes in the minute you quit being the one who hides.

There's a room behind my eyes.

No windows. One door. Key on a chain 'round my neck... and a bottle on the floor for the nights the key can't hold the wreck.

Pictures on every wall. Crooked. Floor to ceiling. Every frame a feeling.

A schoolyard. Me in the corner with a busted lip, a lunch I never got to eat, and three boys laughin' 'cause I cried... and nowhere for a little boy to hide.

A hospital hallway. Green floor. Buzzin' light. Some church lady squeezin' my hand so hard it hurt... and nobody tellin' me Mama wasn't comin' home.

The kitchen. Daddy's belt on the back of the chair. Not hangin' there like a threat. Hangin' there 'cause he'd just used it. And Mama at the sink, back turned, washin' a plate that was already clean. Scrubbing like she could wash out the scene.

People say, "That's the past. Let it go."

Easy to say when you don't have a room.

Easy to sweep when you aren't holding the broom.

Because life don't knock. Life just walk in. Old Spice in an elevator... and I'm back. Somebody slam a car door in the parkin' lot... and I'm nine, frozen on the steps, waitin' to see which daddy walk in. The quiet one... or the other one.

My wife will be talkin' to me. "Where are you, baby?"

"Right here."

Lie. I'm in the kitchen with the belt. I'm nine years old on the curb with a grocery sack of my own clothes. I'm everywhere but where she is.

One time a little one slammed the screen door, playin', and I jumped so hard I knocked my coffee off the table. Then I yelled at him. Loud. Ugly. Daddy's voice came out of my mouth whole... like it had been waitin' in there all along.

He cried.

And I stood there with coffee on my shoes, watchin' a little boy learn the weather in my kitchen... the same way I learned it in Daddy's.

I apologized. He hugged me. Kids forgive quickly.

I don't.

So I went in the bathroom and ran the water so nobody would hear, and I held that sink till my knuckles went white.

The books say walk in, look at the picture, say "that was real," and walk back out.

Some days I can. Some days I can't find the door.

But that coffee on my shoes taught me the one thing I can't unlearn.

What you won't face... you don't escape.

You just hand it to whoever's standin' closest. Same weight. Same shape.

So I go in that room now on purpose. Lights on. Not 'cause I'm brave.

'Cause there's a little boy at my table...

and I'll be damned if he inherit the key.

Turned the TV off. Put the phone face down. Shut the windows on the dogs and the bass from the Charger thumping down the street. Kicked back. Put up my feet.

Sat back in my recliner. "Finally. Some peace."

That's what I thought.

'Cause the minute it got quiet...

every worry I had pulled up a chair... like they'd been waiting right there.

The light bill I hadn't opened? Sat on the arm of the couch, grinnin'.

The talk I've been dodgin' with my son? Sat on the coffee table, lookin' me dead in my face.

That pain in my side the doctor said to "keep an eye on"? Kicked off its shoes. Made itself at home.

Then the what-ifs showed up like relatives at a repast. What if the job cut back? What if she leave? What if the test come back bad? What if I'm running out of time and haven't done a thing with it?

And behind them, the regrets. Back row. Arms folded. Paid for the whole show.

Nobody said a word out loud.

But Lord... it was loud.

Now the books tell you, ask your worries: "Are you a fact... or a forecast?" Sort 'em out. Breathe slow. Feel your feet on the floor.

So I did.

Opened the light bill.

Fact. Worse than I feared. A shut-off notice folded up under it I ain't even know was there.

Texted my son. "Breakfast Saturday?"

Three dots. Then nothin'. Then, a long while later: "Can't. Busy."

He ain't busy. I know busy. I invented busy. I used it on that boy his whole childhood.

Pressed on my side.

Still there. A little bigger, maybe. Or maybe I'm makin' it up. That's the thing about silence. It don't tell you which one.

So here I am. Feet on the floor. Breathin' slow, like they said.

And it's still loud.

Turn out some of those forecasts... was just the facts runnin' late.

The truth talked, all right. It just ain't say anything sweet to my ear.

So I reached for the remote. Turned the game up till I couldn't hear my own heart.

And sittin' in all that crowd noise, it hit me.

Noise ain't peace.

Noise is a payment plan.

You ain't gettin' out of the bill. You're just stretchin' it thin. Same debt. New plan. Dodging the man.

Light bill still due. My son still "busy." My side still sore.

Silence wasn't the problem.

Silence was the only one in the room...

readin' me the balance.

So I turned the game off. Paid what I could. Made the appointment. Left my son a real message this time, not "call me," but "I'm sorry, and I miss you."

The balance isn't zero.

But now I'm the one paying it down...

instead of the one turning it up.

I learned to be agreeable 'fore I learned to be honest.

Learned it young. Be useful, folks stay. Be quiet, the house stay calm. Be impressive... maybe somebody says they're proud without me havin' to beg.

So I became whatever the room needed.

Church? Deacon voice. "Praise the Lord, sister."

Block? Hard face. Lean back. Don't flinch.

Work? Code-switch so smooth you'd think I was born in a cardigan. "Absolutely. Let's circle back. Great question."

Home? The fixer. The provider. All the answers, even when I didn't have any.

A costume for every room. A closet full of masks. A face for every favor... and a smile for every ask.

And don't let anybody tell you masks is just for hidin'. I used mine. Used the deacon voice to get the loan. Used the hard face to scare a man off a deal that was rightfully his. Used "whatever you think, baby" to slide out of every fight my wife ever tried to have... then held it against her later, like she made me agree.

That's the part they leave out.

I wasn't just hidin'.

I was workin' people.

Smooth as a deacon. Sharp as a steeple.

So I started takin' 'em off. Like the books say. "Unlearn the disguise. Meet the real you."

Said no to the trustee board. Pastor ain't speak to me for a month. Turns out the truth costs... and you pay it up front.

Told the church lady with the shrimp dish I don't eat shrimp. She cried. Said I'd been lyin' to her face at every potluck since she started makin' it. She was right. And I sat there while she cried and felt somethin' strange. Free. Like I'd finally set down a plate I'd been carryin' for her for years... and it was never hers to hand me.

Told my wife what I really want. Then I told her what I really think. 'Bout her friends. 'Bout the money. 'Bout the trip to Atlanta we take every year that I can't stand.

She looked at me a long time.

Then she said, "I don't know who you are."

I said, "Me neither."

She said, "I think I liked the other one better."

That one is still sittin' in my chest.

'Cause what if she's right? What if the masks was the best of me?

I sat with that a long time. Here's where I landed.

Nice ain't the same thing as good.

Nice is what you do so folks stay.

Good is what you do knowin' they might walk away.

The masks was nice.

Now I gotta find out if the man under 'em can be good.

He ain't there yet.

But when he fail now...

at least it's his own face doin' it. No mask to hide it. No paint to glue it.

"I'm fine."

Two words. Holdin' up a whole buildin' that's fallin' down... brick by brick, all over town.

I'm fine when the doctor ask about stress, pen ready.

I'm fine when my wife ask why I'm up in the dead of night, standin' in the kitchen in the dark, drinkin' water I don't even want.

I'm fine at the funeral. Fine at the hospital. Fine at the job the day after the layoffs, when my name ain't on the list... and my best friend's is.

And let me tell you the ugly part.

When I saw his name and not mine... I was glad.

Just for a second. 'Fore the guilt came, there was glad. Relief so sweet I could taste it. Shame so loud I had to chase it.

Then I walked over to his desk and said, "Man, I'm sorry. You're going to be fine."

There it goes again.

"I'm fine, man. God is good."

God is good.

I wasn't.

"I'm fine" is heavier than my granddaddy's casket. Heavier than the mortgage. Because with those, somebody helped me lift.

"Fine," I carried by myself. And I liked it that way. Don't let me lie to you. Carryin' it alone made me feel big. Made me the strong one. Made everybody else look weak for needin'. Truth is I was just a man too proud to drop the bag.

My partner said "I'm fine" more than me. Barbershop. Ballgame. On the phone two days 'fore the stroke.

At the repast his wife held a plate she wasn't eatin'. "He kept tellin' me he was fine."

His boy stood by the casket in a suit too big for him, jaw tight, eyes dry... already learnin' the words. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders. "Don't. That word took your daddy. Don't let it take you."

Ain't say a thing.

I was standin' there... fine.

Saw that boy last month. Grown now. Grocery store. Tired eyes.

"How are you doin', young man?"

"I'm good, Unc. I'm good."

And I knew. Lord, I knew. Heard his daddy in it. Heard myself in it.

I said, "That's good." Pushed my cart on down the aisle.

Halfway to the bread, it hit me.

"Fine" ain't a word. It's an inheritance. Passed down quiet... like a will with no witness.

Boys don't learn it from what you tell 'em. They learn it watchin' you say it at a casket.

So I turned that cart around. Found him in produce. Put my hand on his shoulder.

"No. For real. How are you doin'?"

He looked at me a long time.

"Not good, Unc."

Wasn't fine.

It was the first honest thing...

either one of us had inherited.

And honest is where the healing starts.

One cart. One aisle. Two open hearts.

My shadow followed me home and started talkin'.

"You should've done more."

I kept walkin'.

"Look at everybody else. Your classmates retired. Your buddy from high school has a boat. And you? Still grindin'. Still rentin' dreams you can't afford to own."

Turned the corner.

"Remember the job you ain't take? Remember what your daddy said? Remember the look on her face when you walked out?"

Every streetlight, he got longer. Louder. Stronger. By the time I hit my driveway, he was taller than the house... and I wasn't arguing any longer.

Tried outrunnin' him. Sixteen-hour days so I'd be too tired to hear. Tried drinkin' him quiet. Moved cities. New job. New church. He was waitin' in the new driveway when the truck pulled in.

"You ain't changed. You just changed addresses."

So one night under the porch light, I turned around. Puffed up my chest.

"Are you done? Because you're telling the story and skippin' chapters. You ain't mention my daughter's graduation. My name in her speech. You ain't mention the boys I coached. The year I drove my neighbor to dialysis."

And he laughed.

Not loud. Just... tired.

"You wanna talk about those chapters? All right. Why did you coach?"

"To give back."

"You coached because those boys looked at you the way your son stopped lookin' at you. And you know it."

I ain't say a word.

"The dialysis? You told everybody. Church. Barbershop. The whole group chat. A good deed ain't so good when you're selling tickets to it."

"And that speech? You cried at that graduation. But you ain't set foot in her house in two years. You love the speech. You don't call the girl."

I stood there.

Wanted to say, "That ain't true."

But he's made out of me.

He know where I keep everything. Know 'bout the money I ain't report. Know 'bout the letter from my daughter I never answered. Knows what I said 'bout my best friend at the cookout when I thought he couldn't hear.

The books say your shadow is just a half-truth. "Tell the whole story and you win."

Well... I told it.

And the whole story ain't all that much better.

But here's what I'll give myself. The rides still got my neighbor to the clinic. Those boys still learned to hit a curveball. Mixed motives still move cars.

The deed was real.

It's the man doin' it who ain't finished.

So no, I don't get the last word.

We just stand out there, me and him, most nights.

Him talkin'.

Me listenin'.

Both of us waitin' on me...

to be the man I keep tellin' people I am.

So I called my daughter. No speech. No show. Just "I miss you. Can I come by?"

She said, "Come on, Daddy."

My shadow got a little shorter that night...

because I finally walked toward the light.

I spent a long time puttin' makeup on my mistakes.

Callin' avoidance "patience." Callin' jealousy "concern." Callin' stubborn "standin' on principle." Callin' scared "bein' smart." Callin' my temper "passion," my pride "self-respect"... and my drinkin' "unwindin'."

Four beers was "unwindin'." Six was "a long week." The time I backed into the mailbox and told my wife a kid did it... that was "not a big deal."

I could dress up a bad decision so pretty you'd think it went to prom. Tux. Corsage. Shoes shined. Smile for the camera... nothing behind.

Makeup artist for my own excuses.

My son told me once, "Pops, you're never wrong. You're just... misunderstood."

He was laughin'.

I wasn't. And I ain't speak to him the rest of the night. Punished him for bein' right... and called it "needin' space." Same brush. Same face.

See? Even then. Brush in my hand.

Everybody else could see the bruise.

My best friend saw it the year I said I was "too busy" for his mama's funeral. Truth was I'd buried my own six months before and couldn't stand in another church. Could've told him that. He'd have understood. Instead I sent flowers with a card my secretary signed.

He stopped callin'.

I told myself people drift. Called it life. Called it a shift.

He died this past spring. Heart.

I found out on Facebook. Scrolled right past it the first time. Thought it was somebody else. Then I scrolled back up and there he was, grinnin' in a fishin' hat, and a whole page of people sayin' "rest easy" who saw him more than I did.

So I started washin' it off. One excuse at a time. Said it out loud in the car where nobody could hear.

"I wasn't bein' patient. I was scared."

"I wasn't concerned. I was jealous."

"I'm not too busy. I'm a coward."

And I'd love to tell you the air feel different on a clean face. That truth is beautiful just the way it wake up.

It ain't.

The truth look like a gray-headed man cryin' at a red light over a friend he let go for nothin'. Look like a man who can't take back one thing he finally admitted. Truth has pimples. Truth has bags. Truth has a dead friend in it...

and there's no makeup in the world that's going to cover that.

But I keep my face bare now anyway.

Not 'cause it's pretty.

'Cause I'm sick of lookin' at a liar...

and I'm all out of brushes.

So I called his daughter. Told her the truth about the funeral. Told her I was sorry, plain, no paint on it.

She said, "He always said you'd call one day."

Too late for him.

Right on time for every friend I still have left to say it to... while they're still here to hear it.

I ain't recognize myself 'cause I became somebody new.

I recognized myself 'cause I quit lyin' 'bout who was in the room.

For years I was lookin' for a better me. Newer. Polished. Readin' the books, buyin' the programs, waitin' to wake up somebody else.

Healin' ain't a makeover.

It's a lineup.

And when I finally looked... I saw all of 'em.

The little boy at the edge of the court, ball under his arm, waitin' for somebody to call his name. Him, I can love easily.

The teenager who thought attention was love. Chasin' girls, chasin' clout. Him, I can laugh at.

Then it get harder.

The young man who got cruel when he got scared. Parkin' lot, summer of '84. Said things to a girl who loved me... things built to cut, and I knew exactly where to aim. She left that night and she was right to. I've been tellin' it forty years as "we just had a fight." It wasn't a fight. I went for the bone.

The husband who checked out. Two whole years. Home in body, gone everywhere else. Told myself it "just happened," like weather. It ain't just happen. Every single night I chose the driveway over the door.

The daddy who missed too much... and ain't get sorry till his kids got old enough to stop askin'.

All of 'em me.

The books say sit 'em all at the table and tell them, "You did the best you could."

I tried.

The boy, yeah. The teenager, maybe.

But I can't look that young man in the parkin' lot in the eye and tell him he did his best. He didn't. He did his worst. And somebody else's daughter carried it.

So I'm not throwing him a reunion. No cake. No communion.

I'm just done pretendin' he wasn't me.

That's what recognizin' is. Not huggin' every version. Just standin' in the lineup and not lookin' away when the finger point.

"That one. Number four."

Yeah.

That's me.

The man who came back, who got up, who kept going... he's me too. But he don't get to cancel the other one out. They're both standin' there. Same height. Same face.

I looked in the mirror the next mornin'. Gray beard. Tired eyes. Old scar.

And for the first time in fifty-somethin' years, I knew exactly who was lookin' back. Every crack. Every track.

I'm not going to tell you...

I'm proud of all of him.

But I'm proud of this one. The one who quit looking away.

And that one still has today.