Page 12 of You Deserve Good Things

And deep down, I knew . . . we were keeping all the pieces of him that mattered most. The love. The laughter. The legacy.

But Lord . . . it still hurt something awful.

The next morning, I stood on the porch.

Same porch Silas used to post up on, leaning back like he owned the block, talkin’ slick and talkin’ dreams. Dreams so big they barely fit between the chipped paint and screen door. His voice still clung to the wood and brick like a memory that refused to let go. I could hear him now—clear as the creak beneath my boots—laughin’ from his chest, eyes lit with belief.

“Man, Pops,” he used to say, chest puffed out like he was speaking prophecy, “one day I’ma get up outta here. Build us a real house, one with a backyard so big, you gotta call somebody just to mow it. Something where Ma can finally breathe easy.”

That house never got built.

No backyard. No fresh start. No soft landing after the storm.

But as I stood there, fists clenched and throat tight, I made a silent vow to the wind that carried his voice—I’d build that dream for his sister. For Shaniya.

I turned around slowly, the weight of the morning pressin’ against my chest like a cinder block strapped to my ribs.

And there she was. My baby girl. Standing by the car like her feet didn’t wanna move forward, but the world wouldn’t let her stand still. Her hoodie swallowed her whole frame, drowning her in fabric like she was trying to disappear into cotton and grief. Her arms crossed, her shoulders slumped. She looked small, fragile—as if life had wrung her out and left her hangin’. Like sorrow had scribbled itself into her bones.

The light in her eyes—the one Silas used to call her spark—was dim, flickering. But not gone.

I walked over, slow and steady, like my footsteps could hold her together. Slid an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my side, feeling how cold she was, even in the Louisiana heat.

“We gon’ be aight, baby girl,” I whispered, voice thick like syrup, heavy with hurt, hope, and promise. Then I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, right where I used to rest my hand when she was just a little thing falling asleep on my chest.

She ain’t say nothing. Not with words.

But she leaned into me, like my body was the last safe place she had left. Like I could shield her from the echoes of gunshots and the weight of goodbye.

That was enough. Enough to carry. Enough to start over. Enough to believe that somehow, even with a piece of us gone, we’d still find a way to breathe. In that lean—in that quiet surrender—I felt her say, “Don’t let go.” And I wouldn’t. Not ever.

Left Behind

New Orleans,Lower 9th Ward

I had never been the type to sit still.

Even as a kid, I was always moving, whether it was climbing fences, riding bikes too fast, or tryna flip off porch railings like I was invincible. I was always on go. My mama used to say I had a motor in my bones and a storm in my mouth. She said if I didn’t learn to slow down, life was gon’ catch me slipping.

But on this day? I couldn’t move at all.

I just stood there, my jaw clenched and hands buried deep in my hoodie pockets like they were holdin’ the weight of the world, and my eyes locked on that car.

The car that was takin’ Shaniya away.

It was taking her away from this block. Away from Jacory. Away from me. And most of all, away from Silas.

The engine was low and quiet, but the wheels that were rolling over that cracked pavement sounded loud as hell in my ears. They were louder than the shots that dropped Silas. Louder than the screams that followed. Louder than the sound of my own heartbeat that hadn’t been steady since that night.

Silas had called me, and I missed it. I went outside to take the trash out for my mama, and I missed his damn call. Had he not gone by himself, I could’ve looked out for him. When my mama told me he called, I left and headed that way. By the time I walked on the scene, I was too late.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe. It felt like my chest was about to cave in.

Beside me, Jacory stood stiff, arms crossed so tight across his chest he looked like he was holdin’ himself together with force. It was as if he let go, he would fall apart right there on the sidewalk.

He hadn’t said a word in damn near fifteen minutes. My bro just stood there, brows low, jaw grinding, watching the back of that car like he could will it to stop.

But it didn’t.

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