"A Day Without Miss Blues"

On the days that I got a random burst of energy, I had to grab on with a firm hold. My burst of energy came at approximately 1:06 P.M. The blues came, gave me the usual feel of heavy limbs that tied me to the bed and a gaping hole in my chest–like when I finished watching a 12/10 show–, then Miss Blues left. 

I showered without staying under the spray and staring at the pink tiled walls until the hot water ran out. I shaved my entire body, moisturized, and went through the motions of a wash and go that left me with an afro of defined curls. This in itself was another sign that it was a good day because a wash and go, and all of its annoying steps, was often hit or miss. Today was a hit. 

I made myself a spinach and bacon omelet with avocado toast and a strawberry and banana smoothie, which was quite the improvement from a dark coffee or non-existent breakfast. Then, armed in an oversized Christmas sweater, Lululemon leggings, and fuzzy bunny slippers, I set out to complete an absolutely dreadful task. This task was a problem I created for myself for weeks. 

I had to clean my room. 

I tried not to look too hard at each corner of the room, play the blame game with myself and risk Miss Blues coming back, so I just dived right into something random. The floor. 

With my tasteful “Mellow/ Feel Good” playlist blasting through the Alexa speaker, I folded clothes, filled the laundry bin, swept, mopped, and vacuumed. I wiped down the drawers, dresser, and mirrors. Then I tackled reorganization. Brent Faiyaz, Jhene Aiko, H.E.R, and a box of white chocolate Kit-Kat bars helped get me through the task. 

When I finally got down to reorganizing the mini-library near my gold vanity, that’s when I discovered a piece of paper sticking out of my leather journal that has gone untouched for a while. I even had to wipe the dust off of it too. I stopped writing in my journal right around the time I canceled my therapy sessions with Dr. Swane. So about five months ago. 

I did an intense skim and was nearly transported to the time when I had no appetite because I was so heartbroken over Andrew, or when Uncle Dave’s dementia got really bad that we couldn’t carry on our tradition of “New Song of the Week,” or when I realized that my career would be at stake if I didn’t do my boss those special favors. 

I took a deep breath and shut the journal. I wouldn’t allow myself to get swept up in the details and have Miss Blues come back and keep me company. I was not at a point where I could read any of my old insights and still feel okay. So I took the R&B singers with me to the kitchen, grabbed some cheese and crackers, and read the paper that had caught my eye. 

It was a list of goals that Dr. Swane prompted me to make at the start of the year. I smiled, although it came with a pang of sadness, as I skimmed goals for a flat stomach and slimmer face. I did achieve those things, but they were products of an unintentional diet and not the extensive workout routine I outlined back in January. I read my goals ranging from yoga, hair growth, clear skin, perfecting some family dishes to quitting weed, moving up at the advertisement company, and saving up to move into a house with Andrew. 

I ignored some of the bigger, long-term goals I didn’t manage to achieve and instead focused on the smaller ones. I let my mind dwell on the fact that I did end up taking those painting classes with my mom before her discounts expired. I dwelled on the fact that I did manage to visit my brother, Emmanuel, in Colorado, even though I loathed flying and skiing. I let my mind wander with memories of finally finishing that song with my best friend for her Youtube Channel, finding my sense of style through thrifting all over the city, and of Jamaica’s clear blue waters from over the summer. 

I did a lot; I mentally chanted. I tried not to count, check things off, or compare and instead focused on finding a goal to get started on right now, a good end to the year. 

I started laughing at goal number twenty-eight: Get better at giving gifts!!!!

As my laughter died down, I thought back to all the terrible gifts I’d given my family members over the years. Eventually, I urged people to just straight up tell me what they wanted, usually through the form of a list. Although my mom has never said it outright, I knew she didn’t like this method. Grace Clarke was great at giving gifts, combined with the element of surprise because she was thoughtful and a great listener. Clearly, those were two traits she did not pass down to me. Like my dad, I was quick to give something generic or necessary because it was safe and easy. 

I decided right then to think of a better Christmas gift for my mother, something to rival the random pot-set I gave her last week at Christmas. Of course, she gushed over it when I gave it to her; she would react the same way if I gave her a paper-clip. But I wanted her to be touched. I wanted tears. I wanted her to squeeze me as tightly as she did when I almost got hit by a car a few years ago. 

I paced the living room, squeezing my stress ball, as Ari Lennox’s voice crooned through the speakers. I read google links, looked through Tik Tok hashtags, and even scrolled through Pinterest. I didn’t find true inspiration until I started looking through my photos. I was big on making albums for nearly everything, making it easier to explore and brainstorm. I looked through vacation albums, holidays, birthdays, and school events. 

Suddenly, a fact of life occurred to me; like any mother, mine was attached to pictures. Eventually, I dug out the photo albums that my mother gave me overtime, then paired with my Pinterest exploration, I came up with an idea. 

A very long time ago, I learned that I worked well under pressure, so I decided to give myself a deadline. I rang up my mom. 

“We haven’t hung out in a while,” I told her, “why don’t you come over tonight. We’ll watch a movie or just hang out and talk. Or we could play the sketching game if you want.” 

My mom made a noise that sounded a lot like a squeal. “Oh, sweetie, I would love that! I was just finishing up some Penne Alla Vodka pasta, and I still have some leftover chocolate cake. I’ll bring those. I’ll be there at 10:30 P.M. We can even watch the ball drop!”

“Okay, see you then. Love you, mom.”

I did some more google searches, made a list on my notes app, did a quick sketch, then got into my old Toyota Honda and went out for some supplies. It seemed as though everyone else had last-minute goals and activities they were trying to do by the New Year. The streets of Brooklyn were bustling with activity; the traffic was a hassle, and the stores had long lines. I went to Target, Dollar Tree, and Walgreens, and the entire journey took nearly two hours. 

I sat on the ground with all my supplies surrounding me and then got to work. It didn’t take as long as I thought, but I still kept staring at the time, and my heart raced with excitement and nerves. We agreed on 10:30 P.M, but that really meant my mom would be here at 10:10 P.M. 

 The hardest part of this project was figuring out which pictures to use because I had a limit given the size. But I also wanted these pictures to be of significant highlights, moments I knew my mom would really love. 

In the end, I was left with a gold-copper hoop with an array of pictures within the circle connected by creme ribbon strips. I included a snapshot of the time we all got caught in the rain in Florida, and my mom thought our soaking wet clothes were so hilarious that it had to be posted on Facebook. 

There was a picture of my mom and dad that I had taken many years ago, and I vividly remember sneakily taking a shot to complain about their affection for Emmanuel. I took it and forgot about it. Now my vision blurred with tears all over again at the sight of my dad kissing my mom passionately when he thought no one was looking. 

In 2015, I helped my mom repaint her office a beautiful periwinkle color, and my brother adorably fed her vegetable rice and mango slices while we worked. There was no way I could have let that transpire without taking a few pictures. 

I scanned the set of pictures from the huge snake wrapped around my mother’s arms, to the two of us smiling over a bowl of cake batter, to a cozy picture of us on the sofa with my brother the winter he broke his leg. We had forced Emmanuel into a cuddle, and despite hating physical affection, his smile was beaming. 

Finally, I decorated the hoop’s border with my mom’s favorite flower, common daisies surrounded by these alarmingly pricey mini Christmas lights. 

I only had ten minutes to spare, so I quickly changed into a tank top with a comfy brown cardigan, slid on my Ugg slippers, then grabbed a couple of wine glasses. 

For the first time in weeks, my chest was light, my limbs were loose, and I felt surprisingly productive. As I waited for my mom to arrive, I looked over my old list again to see what other small goals I could achieve next week.