Transition

Transition...

An introspective season
of sacrifice,
questions mangled,
answers simple,
closure definitive.

An autumn
too long bleak
too short vibrant,
the season
of understanding,
unconditional forgiveness
of others and oneself,
a freefall embrace of
the sword
of grace and humility.

Transition,
the challenge
the adversity,
the healing.

. . . Transition

After a very long illness, our father, Ralph A. Velasco, made his transition on May 5, 2001. He was a simple man. He was a complex man. He was a man win, lose, or draw, fearless or fearful, a man who faced life head on. A black man making his way as a civil service, professional. A black man refusing to accept segregated decades of injustice. A family man who was there for us. An imperfect man, sometimes losing sight of his anger sometimes brutal. A man who knew when to laugh. A father who was not immune to the pitfalls of life but cared for his family, who tried to give his family the very best in life, and was there from the beginning to the very end. I believe he was just one of the many African American father's who laid the foundation for us to continue, to achieve, to soar, no matter what...

The journey [is] almost over. Yet those eyes of passage, eyes now near dusk, eyes valiant, holding years of unspoken pain still understood that I could not quite let go yet, there must be a combination, something I overlooked, something the education gained through his, no through sacrifice of their combined early years. His love was never easy. Mother's departure about twenty years earlier was quick, abrupt. It ripped and tore, the pavement buckled, and we tumbled. She left before him, he temporarily lost his way to us. But I did understand that this journey was about healing, father, son, and daughter. Still, it was impossible not to search for those combinations that he showed me everyday of his life when he got up at 6am no matter what, climbed the long stairs to the iron rail and greeted the beast with perfection. Give it Hell! His daily inspirational message. No matter what the obstacle, sheer endurance, determination laced with heavy doses of intellect and hard liquor (that forbidden place where he stored his anger, and that place from which his anger escaped much too often) rammed daily those doors closed to the promise, to the better life. These were his combinations with which he fought for us and in the daily grind of forty-seven years, faithful to his daily inspirational, he tore down the great walls, and handed us the promise, the better life. And now my tallest tree, my rage turned ravage, frail, head to toe crippled ("multiple organ failure" mists of denial), still those eyes spoke to us.

The time short. Rarely breaking promise, he would keep this last one. "Dad you forget me and Larry, are you back with us now?" " Sure, I'm back, I've been around a long time, not gone yet, I'll never forget you and Larry. Promise." After a ten-year battle, his mind and heart now only spoke through his eyes. Few tears, his dignity never surrendered. His eyes spoke of healing. His children safe; his family in harmony with the gathering; his promise fulfilled. He could return to her.

His turn on the color palette of life, dealt him a hue of color, brown and proud. Yet, life achievement was measured in mere inches. Every inch gained, fought and won on an unjust playing field. Inches measured in microscopic victories running concurrent with wrenching undertows. Our Dad. Swimming farther than my eyes dare reach, disappearing from my horizon, no worry. (Whirling mini stroke undertows pulling him from my horizon, no matter) He hit bottom. He defied gravity of convention. Imperfection's perfect life design. As the pearl polished by deep water grit poisons, our Dad facing hard life lessons head on always emerged from the undertow. Returning to my horizon, the shores of my life reinforced. This was the final swim. He had beat life's undertows. He would rest in calm waters, an eternity of healing...of peace.

Never leave those that have seen you through. Dad's words. Friendship was hard. Fierce bonds, sane or insane, unapologetic, a fifty and some odd year fusion. Death, dumb, or blind, friendship that saved your life, betrayed, was for better or for worse, was forever.

Nearing journey's end. Final cleansing. Against a trashing undertow, he rallied one last time to say goodbye to his friends, his oneness. Scorched mind. Hoping for one last desperate combination, I searched his eyes. Slowly, I began to understand. Unwillingly and very guardedly, I began to let go, to accept his absolution. Combinations were no longer my call. It was his goodbye, his combination. His most prized possessions, daughter and son, now entrusted to the friends. He heard the giant, [the] gentle prayer of his son saying goodbye, giving him up to the heavens of Islam. Dad closed his eyes.

Lynnette C. Velasco is a freelance writer living in New York. She is the author of a children's book, Zinzi: A Child's Journey to Self-Fulfillment, Giving and Caring.