Little Chocolate Girl (Short Story)
It was just another Sunday morning and like all the previous one’s with loud music blasting through the stereos of my living room as my wake-up call. I exhaustedly rolled out of bed, after sitting there for a moment contemplating how deep I would attempt to live out my day today. Would I be lazy and stay in? Or forced to go to the petite church 5 minutes down Michigan Avenue where the choir would perform a song I’ve never heard before that made me cry tears I didn’t know needed to be released.
From that point my dad would turn and look at me asking “why you always crying baby girl?” A question I had no idea how to answer, so instead I’d continue crying as he would put his arm around me allowing me to soak his button up, silk, or whatever-the-occasion-called-for-that-day-shirt. And I never liked to call myself a daddy’s girl because he’d burned the bridge that linked us so many times before that I never claimed the title. But on Sundays, in that church, crying on his shoulder, I knew deep down I would always be his “sweet, little chocolate girl” as he’d sing to me, mostly, in my youth.
So, I decided to go to church once again. I headed down the carpeted two flights of stairs using the wooden staircase railing to give me a little more umph to make it. I’m only 22-years-old but at times I feel like an elderly woman trapped in an adolescent body, especially early mornings after the longest nights out on the town. As Marvin Sapp powerfully sung: “now I see how you were there for me”, and my dad sings along at the top of his lungs, I peak around the corner to see what he’s cooking up for us this lovely Sunday morning. The one thing I could always count on Sundays is that there would be some pancakes or bacon to provide my stomach some happiness and my heart some fullness. As a Taurus sun, I’ve always been a foodie, and anyone can lure me with the perk of a good meal.
“Good Morning Baby, get ready for church, we gotta get there on time today”. Even though we all knew it wouldn’t actually happen, but I appreciated the hope he pretended to have. After stealing a piece of bacon, I wandered back upstairs stopping by everyone’s rooms to get an update on whether they were going to church or not. Starting with my mom who was sleep as usual, she worked a lot of midnights, so sleep was her church, understandably. Then, I’d check on my little brother who was lying in bed on his phone prolonging his attempt to get ready by asking me “what should I wear”, I never knew the answer because he did a pretty good job of dressing himself. We get that from our dad, who loves stepping out in the “freshest” attire. Lastly, I’d simply see if my older sister’s door was opened or not, I’d knock somedays, but she’s always been a stay-in-bed-on-a-Sunday type of chick.
After getting dressed in my Sunday’s best, today it was a sweater dress with tights and a no make-up-make-up look. “C’mon y’all we gotta go”, my dad screamed up the stairs. I eventually grabbed my church jacket and walked downstairs, meeting my little brother as he was doing the same. We grabbed some food and ate quickly then headed off to church. The three of us sort of had this “Jones” connection, my mom decided to give my brother and I my dad’s last name, but for some reason our older sister ended up with hers. It was a weird relationship between my mom and dad, but we all had our own separate dynamics throughout our family.
Regardless of how I thought I looked, my dad would always compliment me, followed by a “you look just like me”, today was the same. After the sermon wrapped up, we went to grab a bite to eat at a commercial steakhouse. I listened closely when my dad ordered because it was always something unique about his selection, he was a chef for Christ’s sake. But also sort of a player, every time he talked to people he unintentionally flirted. A gift of gab and making people feel seen.
We finally made it home and on Sunday’s we normally choose a movie to watch together, my sister usually joined us at this point. Today it was Taken, as we watched Liam Neeson chase down the people who kidnapped his daughter, it was inspiring to see how wrapped up my dad got into the movie, all of us really. The different commentary, we all are big talkers, was a necessary part of the experience for us. We laughed all night and talked about the most random things. My eyes grew heavy as the day turned to night outside of the windows, I slowly drifted to sleep encouraged by the rain dripping down the windowpanes.
Suddenly, an alarm went off and I woke up, it was 5 years later in the queen size bed at my own home 30 miles away from where I grew up. The dream was so vivid I thought I was there. I went to turn off the 8:00 am alarm that still read “Drink Water & Call Dad”, from a note that I put years ago and never updated. Because today wasn’t 5 years ago, it wasn’t even 2 years ago in the Fall of 2020 on the last day I could’ve called my dad. The darkest night of my life, the night before the first morning in 25 years that he didn’t wake up with us.
After a while I forced myself to accept this reality and celebrate the time, I did have with him physically, but there are still random moments of my life where I forget that he’s not alive and it’s a very brief moment before remembering again, before my heart shatters a little more. It’s been one of the most uncomfortable realizations that I must keep coming to. Sometimes I lay down and imagine it is five years ago and that I’ll wake up to him downstairs, cooking, singing, and doing all the things I remember.
