Chasing Butterflies

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Authors: Amir Abrams

BOOK: Chasing Butterflies
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Also by Amir Abrams
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Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Chasing Butterflies
AMIR ABRAMS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
 
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
 
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
 
Copyright © 2016 by Amir Abrams
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
 
 
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-9482-1
 
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9483-8
eISBN-10: 0-7582-9483-2
First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2016
 
This book is dedicated to Triqqa Dee and his daughter, Jade.
There’s nothing more powerful than a father’s love.
May you continue to be the light in her life, and the wind
beneath her growing wings.
1
T
he Umoja—pronounced
oo-MOE-jah
—(meaning unity) Poetry Lounge in L.A. swells with lively chatter and fiery energy. There are drums and congas and tambourines and hips swinging.
We’ve taken the twenty-five-minute drive from Long Beach—where I live—to be here tonight. It’s a Thursday evening, and open mic night.
I’m at my table scrambling to finish my piece. It’s a last-minute surprise for Daddy, who’s sitting at the table with me.
And I’m anxious, really, really anxious.
This time.
As if it’s my first time taking the stage.
My nerves are fluttering up around me.
Why?
Because I’ve decided at the very last moment—less than ten, no . . . eight minutes before open mic starts—to change my piece. And now I’m frantic.
Most of the people here are spoken word artists, like myself, but much older; college-age and older, but an eclectic bunch nonetheless.
I’m one of the youngest.
An eleventh grader.
But I’ve earned the respect of the more seasoned poets. The poets with tattered notebooks filled with much more life experience and depth than I can possibly have at sixteen.
Still, I hold my own among them.
Being on stage is the only time I feel...
Liberated.
They embrace my innocence.
Embrace my openness about the world around me.
And allow me license to just be.
Me.
Free.
That’s what I love most about poetry. The creative freedom. The freedom to weave words together. Colorful expression. A kaleidoscope of emotions, imagination, passion, hopes, and dreams. We are surrounded by similes and metaphors.
We listen.
We hear.
And tonight will be no different, no matter how anxious I am becoming. There’s an uncontrollable energy that lifts me, and sweeps around the room. The feeling is indescribable. All I can tell you is I feel it slowly pulsing through my veins.
Like with all the other open mics, there are no judgments, no stones cast.
Well . . . not unless you are just unbelievably whacked, that is.
I am not.
Whacked
, that is.
Well, okay... at least I don’t think I am. So I know I should have no reason to be worried tonight.
But I am.
See. Tonight is special. I mean. It
has
to be special. It’s Daddy’s birthday. I brought him here for dinner. And then, I had this bright idea to surprise him with a poem. My dedication to him, my way of thanking him for being the most wonderfully incredible father a girl could ever ask for.
I am an only child. And Daddy is my only parent.
See. My mom was killed in a car accident when I was six. So for the last ten years, Daddy has been singlehandedly raising me on his own. Well, wait. Okay. He did have help caring for me the first five years after my mom’s death. Nana. My maternal grandmother, she stepped in and helped Daddy provide some normalcy in my life.
But then . . . she died, too, from cancer.
I was eleven.
So you see, Daddy is all I have.
It’s him, and me.
And, no, this isn’t a sob story.
It’s my reality.
My truth.
I’ve endured heartache and loss; more than I’ve ever hoped for. But I know love, too. Real love.
Daddy’s love.
And, for me, there is no love higher than his. He has helped me to endure. Still, I can’t lie. I lost pieces of me when my mom was killed. And even more pieces of me when my nana passed. But, over time, Daddy salvaged me. Helped put me back together. Loved me whole again. His unconditional love has been my soothing balm. It heals me. It protects me. It gives me promise.
That there’s nothing I can’t get through.
And I love him for that.
I know there are no coincidences. Everything that happens to us in our lifetime happens for a reason. And sometimes that reason is much bigger than us. We can’t see it. We can’t always understand it. Still, it happens because that’s the order of destiny.
Daddy taught me that.
That we live, we love, we—
Daddy must sense my trepidation. He reaches for my hand and gently squeezes it. I look at him and smile. No words are needed. His touch is all I need. But he gives me more. He always does. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. This is your world.”
I smile wider.
Instantly, I calm enough to focus and write a few more verses.
Maybe I should just speak from the soul.
Let words flow from my lips in synch to what I feel in my beating heart.
I quickly glance around the dimly lit room. Candles flicker on the tables.
Suddenly, I am feeling nervous again.
I try to calm myself, to no avail.
I try to—
“Peace and blessings, my beautiful people,” I hear the emcee say. I look over toward the stage. She’s a beautiful brown-skinned woman, the color of milk chocolate, wearing a fire-engine-red halter-jumpsuit that complements her curves and her complexion.
Her skin shimmers under the glow of the light.
She stands at the mic, confident.
Proud.
Graceful.
Her presence is electric.
“Peace and blessings,” the crowd says in unison.
“Y’all ready to get lifted?”
The crowd raises their arms, fingers snap.
“I am Sheba, your host tonight. And trust me. Tonight you are in for a real treat. We have a lineup of some of the west coast’s finest spoken word artists slated to take the stage and stimulate your mental. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the prose. First up to take the stage is Nia . . .”
I am taken by surprise when the emcee introduces me.
Oh no.
That can’t be—
I think I am hearing things, but then she announces my name again.
Nia Daniels.
I hoped to be somewhere in the middle. Not first.
Never first.
Daddy must sense my hesitation. “Go do your thing, Butterfly,” he says beaming. I smile back nervously, then lean over and kiss him on the cheek. Daddy has been calling me
Butterfly
since I was three years old. He says it was because I would get excited every time I saw one in our yard, and that I reminded him of one because I was light on my feet and always flitting about as a child, never settling on one thing for any length of time before moving onto something else, like a butterfly.
I push up from my chair, grab my book, and head toward the front of the lounge. I slowly take to the stage, the glare from the lights blinding me.
I blink. Blink again.
My nerves are getting the best of me.
I am literally trembling.
My piece isn’t finished.
I’m never unprepared.
Never.
But tonight . . . tonight I’m feeling mentally disheveled.
I stand at the microphone, head bowed, hands clasped, trying to collect myself, trying to gather up my anxiety.
I clear my throat.
Take a deep breath.
“Hi, everyone. Tonight I’m sharing a piece I’ve written for the most special person in my life. My rock. My anchor. My world. My one constant. Since birth, he’s been everything to me.” I glance over at Daddy. He leans in, his attention fixed on me. “And, tonight, I want to share with all of you a piece of who he is, who he has been, to me.” I glance over at Daddy again. “Daddy, this one’s for you.”
He smiles.
I look out into the crowd. “Y’all please bear with me. I didn’t get a chance to finish it, so I . . .”
Someone says, “Take your time, little sister.”
“That’s all right,” someone else says. “We got you.”
I smile.
Glance over at Daddy one more time. Then grab the mic, and close my eyes.
Mother
Father
Protector
Provider
Best friend
Wrapped into
one
beautiful gift.
You are . . .
Pancakes
smothered
in warm maple syrup,
eggs scrambled hard,
grits with lots of cheese.
You are . . .
Sugar cookies
and
ice cream cones,
lemon pound cake
and
painted toes . . .
tree houses
jump rope
hopscotch
hide ’n’ seek
and Barbie dolls.
You are . . .
Easy-Bake Ovens
crayons
and
Play-Doh;
Rollerblades
carousels
and
no-hand
roller coaster rides.
You are . . .
Saturday morning
cartoons
and
hot fudge sundaes.
Sandcastles
and seashells;
rushing waterfalls
and Venice Beach.
You are . . .
Gershwin piano keys
Bach French Suite
No. 1
in D-minor;
toothy grins
crooked parts
lopsided ponytails
and
colored barrettes;
that’s what you are to me.
Bedtime prayers
and
nursery rhymes;
candy-coated rainbows
sweet dreams
and lullabies;
shiny trinkets
and glass slippers.
Pixie dust
and
scraped knees
drenched
in kisses;
gentle
warming
so full of love;
that’s what you are.
Tea parties
And dress up.
My inspiration
My hero
No
No
My super hero
Always there
to save the day...
sunshine in the rain.
The gentle breeze
beneath my
fluttering wings...
Morning hugs
and tummy tickles;
vanilla skies
and butterfly kisses . . .
That’s what you are.
Mother
Father
Protector
Provider
Best friend
wrapped into
one
beautiful gift
That’s what you are.
“And I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” I say, so full of joy. “Happy birthday, Daddy. I love you.”
The room erupts with applause. Then everyone joins me in singing “Happy Birthday” to the world’s greatest dad.
With my heart full and my soul fed, I step away from the mic and glance over at Daddy. The look on his face says it all.
He is so very touched.
And I am loved.

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