The start of the first week of the rest of my existence… without my boy. Three years ago, Sunday, January 24, 2021. By next Sunday, Braxton would be gone, and I wouldn’t recognize myself anymore. My identity then and now? To B Identified, Virgil
Wednesday, January 24, 2024
Tale 207 ~To B Identified, Virgil~
Bless Me, Echo,
For I have sinned. And yet it was Braxton who paid for it. “I said, he doesn’t look a thing like Jesus.”
But if I ever wanted to be someone… Let it be my little boy. My Braxton, sitting in his bed on a steel table, dying.
I’m not Dolph Ziggler, but “It should have been me!”
My son… my furry little boy, was better than every man I have ever known. Hell! If my “father” wanted to end me. If my Ma had made better decisions. I would be thankful. Have I ever mentioned feeling some kind of way about being thirty-nine, Inspector? Uh, not good…
Anyway, why am I making everything about myself today? After everything that I endured yesterday. As far as I’m concerned, today is Sunday, January 24, 2021—or B’s Last Week. You should read Gospel 207 ~Hell With Instructions Will~ Inspector.
I did mention there, “I did pray for my Dæmon every day.” My dear, sweet little boy, Inspector. God, I would be a praying fool come the end of that week. All to no avail.
Why? I’m not Daniel Kaluuya, Lil Rel Howery, Jeffrey Wright, or LaKeith Stanfield. I could go on. To be a good black man. Hell! To be worthy of being called a man at all. Ha!
And yet I dared to be Braxton’s Daddy. And I couldn’t save him. I can’t keep myself, dear Inspector Echo.
You know the past few nights have been hard. And around 8:45 AM, I downed an energy shot. So, I won’t be taking an afternoon nap. It is far too much work ruining my existence.
And that’s the rub. I don’t even want to see it. But there I was Tuesday afternoon, trying to schedule an appointment with the eye doctor. And trying to figure out my insurance situation. Sigh.
I’d be surprised if somebody weren’t out there right now trying to be me. I swear I don’t want to be me. But trying to imagine who I would be if Braxton was still alive. Who I am now. And the disgusting person I saw staring at me in the mirror as I got sick. And again, the question is why? Simple Inspector. Straight, Black, Atheist… I identify as STUPID.
It beats being a pervert, a victim, or a bad dog owner. Poor Virgil, poor Braxton. To B Identified, Virgil
“It feels like I’m dying. I’m so scared all the time.” ― Mara, Spontaneous (2020)
1088 Days Without B III, Day 529 of Virgil’s Arrival
BLM Braxton’s Life Matters,
Will