“Still In Love . . . Deniece”
Shortly before Herbert Brooks died, he’d read a love letter I had authored just shy of graduating high school. I was all of 17. Upon finishing his read, he paused. Turning his gaze to me after that moment of tense silence, my grandfather said, “You’ve got what it takes to become the greatest romance writer this country’s ever produced.”
I didn’t believe him, Deniece.
I ran away—mentally.
Someone who cares about you may sometimes embellish the possibilities, you know? They’ll sometimes set the bar so inconceivably high for a loved one that it could be interpreted as a farce. I mean, why would the sage say something so outlandish to a 17-year-old who had no clue what he wanted for his own life?
My grandfather never got to see Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2 come to be. In my aloneness, nights no end of writing and creating in the candlelit dark, I sometimes shed tears. For my forefather. He cared about me. The old man loved me. Something within him ran within me, as I look back into his eyes in that pivotal moment.
I cry as I write this.
Few people know about Pamper-Her-Friday, Deniece. A handful maybe. I have a few social connects. My number of followers on Twitter is laughable. Facebook gives me a little play . . . and I’m grateful. A palmful of LinkedIn corporate types have acknowledged my presence but probably think I’m half-crazy. Instagram? Well, I’d be lucky if more than 10 people have noticed my creativity.
Still, I write. Still, I create.
I still hear my grandfather’s voice, Deniece. I swear I do. I don’t want to let him down.
About 80% of new businesses fail. Eight out of 10 new business ventures eventually go under. Wow, that’s a rather depressing thought, you know?
I’ve failed so many times in my life. I’ve been fired from three corporate jobs . . . they said my work was “too flowery” or “someone in management just doesn’t like you.” Even though I was making sizable revenue for each employer. The sadnesses were many, Deniece. Tears sometimes glossed my eyes, in silence.
Through it all, my grandfather’s voice remained. In and out. Come and gone. And come again in the very pit of my stubborn ear.
I checked the analytics on my site yesterday. You know, the precise information on who’s reading my work, in which country, how they found me, and various other metrics. Can you believe it that people in Canada, Norway, China, Australia, India, Pakistan, South American countries and more are actually reading? Something’s happening, slowly, quietly, but surely.
I’m not running away anymore from Mr. Brooks’ proclamation. Maybe it’s not so outlandish after all, eh? Perhaps the old sage saw what I wasn’t capable of seeing as a teen, you know? Or simply chose not to see.
I take nothing for granted. Not a morsel of blessing do I take for granted.
That picnic we shared at the park in Clairmont? I’ve never taken that moment for granted. Summer picnics are rare anymore. They’re probably corny to some.
Not to me.
Sharing ice cream in the midst of a random summer’s sunset? I swear, that does it for me. The small serendipities, the little pleasantries that are actually magnified simply by being together—because together is where we want to be.
Listening to Mali sing “Still” on our cheap Android phones, I swear, does it for me. Because when it’s all said and done, it’s those moments in this volatile life that take your breath away that make togetherness so utterly special. Feel?
My grandfather was spot on, Deniece. He was right all along. He knew I was gonna run away from his vision for me. The sage knew.
And he knew I would come back, eventually. I could escape only so far until the spirit within makes a stand and says to the mind, “Dammit, man, you know what you should be doing, why you’re on this earth. Now get to it!”
Pamper-Her-Friday was inevitable. I’m gonna see it through.
My grandfather loved me. God, I miss him.
I believe you love me, too. Somewhere in the chambers of your heart is a space reserved for Rg2.
God, I miss you, Deniece.
I miss pampering you in those small, simple yet powerful ways.
I miss our summer’s romance.
Forever in you,
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her soul. -Rg2
© 2017 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®