101 Words

As he lay dying, my father’s request that I wear my service uniform to his funeral was as close as he’d ever come to saying he was proud of me.

Regardless of my accomplishments, his withering criticism during my teen years weighed on my adult mind. Did he still think I was the “dumbest man God ever put breath into”? My veterans’ readjustment therapist says it’s more about his lack of self-esteem than my adolescent failures.

As the nurse increases the morphine drip and his lucidity fades, my last chance to hear him say he loves me slips away as well.

Dear Dr. Desmond,

Three mentors steered me toward this moment: Dr. Okoro, my headmaster in Lagos, who said, “America.” Dr. Chance, my lit professor, who tempered my scientific thinking with humanity. Finally, you, a biochemist and, like me, a woman of color, who suggested medicine.

Today, after a moment to honor our cadavers, I unzipped a bag to begin my first dissection. The head was covered, but I recognized the half-moon scar on your left forearm. Next quarter, when I unwrap your head, I expect to see a smile. I am grateful to be the last student you teach.

Ayodele Ibazebo

“My dad fought in Venom,” says Rip. “He’ll be spooky quiet, then cries about cooks he creased, stares at the wall. For hours. Doesn’t move, doesn’t talk. Sleeps. Gets angry when I wake him. He drinks, goes on about friendly far, sna-foos, wasted grumps, kay-eye-ays and em-eye-ays. Tripping on cycle delis, frigging officers—fragging he says sometimes—and the medal hoss puddles they put him in when he came home. I don’t believe him.”

“My grandfather’s a liar, too,” Alonzo replies. “Says he almost froze to death in the war with Corinna, my grandma. But I’m pretty sure he loved her.”

Standing in a haze of Ma’s new perfume, vanilla fighting flowers, everything adds up. Ma teaching me to do laundry. Showing me how to work the can opener and microwave. Telling me about monthly girl time, making me afraid every bathroom trip—on the lookout for a red bloom that will mean I am a woman, destined to suffer as we all do, she’d said. She leans down and plants a sticky kiss on my forehead. Passion Pink lipstick, also new. Nodding towards my little sisters, Cammy’s full diaper hanging low, Ma says, “When it’s time, do it for the others.”

“I will deliberate.” The Judge retires to his chamber to decide the man’s fate.

A life sentence vs. freedom.

He removes two giant snails from his fish tank, blots the dripping water with a paper towel, and places one on either flat plate of his ‘justice’ scales. One ‘guilty’ snail, one ‘innocent’.

They balance.

As the plodders slowly begin moving to the side, he places a single white crystal on the tail of each. The sodium shock hastens the movement of the creatures. The scales tip.

“The scales of justice move slow,” he says, “but today, I have an early tee-time.”

Princess Zulimar’s father issued the challenge. To marry Zulimar, suitors must pirouette across the sea to his island palace.

Prince Perfect practiced the dizzying dance to exhaustion.

One day, kind Lady Dungeness intruded upon Perfect, sleeping on the beach. “Prince Suitable is pirouetting to the palace today,” she warned.

“Impossible! He just began practicing,” Perfect said.

“You’re ready! Go now!” Lady Dungeness encouraged.

“Not yet.” He believed his pirouettes still imperfect.

Months later, Perfect whirled to the palace.

A man greeted him, “You’re too late.”

It was King Suitable.

Perfect became light-headed. “But, I’m Perfect.”

“Indeed, you are. But Suitable succeeded.”

“She cannot recover,” they say gently.

I won’t admit that the doctors could be right.

Sometimes my daughter suddenly opens her eyes and stares deep into my face. Then I kiss her, my tears splashing her cheeks, soaking her hair.

“She is not there,” the doctors say. “You must let her go.”

I don’t hear that. Cannot accept it.

I fight on.

Finally, the courts say she will die. Must die. I am exhausted, beaten, defeated.

Each day I burst with love for my daughter. Each night I despair that a drunk driver took her life.

That I took her life.