Page 13 of Cuffed By Your Love
Some days,grief lingered quietly in the corners of your mind, like a church mother dressed in white, humming a hymn only heaven could decipher, rocking gently and steadily, as if praying for your strength. But on other days, grief barged in uninvited, like it had a key to your front door. It threw your peace across the room, stomped on it twice, and dared you to knuck if you were buck. It didn’t knock or wait; it simply appeared, armed with pain in one hand and memories in the other, determined to remind you that you hadn’t healed completely.
Mornings in my house used to sound quite different. There used to be gospel music coming from the kitchen—Mahalia Jackson moaning through the speakers like she could pray the grief out of your bones. I could hear the clink of my baby’sbracelet on the sink while she did her hair, that soft jingle echoing like comfort wrapped in silver. There used to be two toothbrushes in the cup and a half-empty bottle of rose water on the counter, with her initials written in Sharpie, marked on the side as if she thought I would forget that girly shit belonged to her, as if her presence wasn’t already etched into every single molecule of this house.
Now, mornings were silent. Too silent. The only sound was EJ’s cartoons humming softly in the background, like lullabies for the brokenhearted, along with the sound of my own breath echoing through this cold house, reminding me I was still alive. But barely.
I stood in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around my waist. The scent of tea tree and sandalwood beard oil, Tempest’s favorite, filled the room. She used to say I smelled like a clean conscience and had a credit score over seven hundred. That memory felt different lately. I worked the oil in slowly, trying to avoid looking at the photo frame on the shelf next to the mirror. The buzzing of my beard clippers filled the air. The man in the mirror had strong shoulders, but his eyes revealed a deep tiredness, a weariness that couldn’t be cured by sleep, only by prayer.
I rubbed my thumb over the scar above my right eyebrow. I earned that one while breaking up a domestic dispute back in ’18. I didn’t regret it. It served as a reminder that even protectors bleed, especially those who stayed too long in the line of fire.
I looked at the photo frame anyway.
Tempest Nicole Edmonds, my wife and my other half. She was the part of me that God didn’t give back when He took her.
She’d been gone for two years and three months. It was a robbery that turned into homicide, right in the middle of the day, just around the corner from our house. She was running out to grab juice for EJ, snacks I’d mentioned I’d wanted, and a packof allergy meds, when a nervous tweaker with a pistol walked in, panicked, and pulled the trigger before he even spoke a word.
He didn’t even take the fucking money from the register.
Just her life.
I stood in the bathroom, my bare chest covered by steam that I deliberately let build up like a fog machine for my sorrow. The heat blurred the mirror, thank God, because some days, I wasn’t ready to face what was left of me.
The warmth made it easier to move slowly. My grief had melted just enough to allow me to lift my arms without feeling like I was carrying bricks made of memories.
Grief was cruel like that; it didn’t always hit you hard. Sometimes it just sat, heavy, like a wet coat you struggled to take off when caught in the rain.
I brushed my teeth slowly, each stroke a quiet attempt at maintaining a basic routine, as though the monotony could somehow save me. I stared at myself, trying to recognize the man looking back at me. The same jawline she used to trace with her fingers when I was stressed, whispering prayers into my skin as if she could ease my burdens with her touch alone. The same tired, brown eyes that had seen too much and refused to forget. The same lips that kissed her goodbye two years ago and hadn’t touched another woman since. Not because I didn’t have the chance, but because nobody felt like home.
I washed my face with cold water to wake myself up, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. Sometimes, survival felt like a fucked up ritual, and that was what it had become: waking up without her every single day. Each morning felt like a rerun of the same silent nightmare.
I stepped into the shower and let the hot water hit my back. It was hot enough to sting, hot enough to silence the ache, if only for a minute. I wasn’t the type to cry, but sometimes, I let thewater do it for me. I allowed it to slide down my face and drip from my chin, like liquid grief in disguise.
I scrubbed slowly with peppermint soap—real Black man hygiene. It cleared my pores and reminded my body that it still belonged to me. I made sure to wash behind my ears, just like she used to nag me about affectionately, always with a smirk and a kiss.
I used a good exfoliator on my beard, the one her sister had given me at the repast. I applied it with trembling hands, tear-stained cheeks, and a shaky kind of grace. She always said, “She’d want you to still care for yourself.” So I did, even when it felt like I was dressing wounds that hadn’t stopped bleeding.
I stood there longer than necessary, one hand on the tile, head bowed like a broken soldier waiting for orders from a God I didn’t understand anymore. Steam became the arms of someone I couldn’t hold anymore: familiar, fleeting, already fading.
“God, I don’t know what You’re doing, Big G,” I whispered into the fog. “But I’m still here, still trying to show up, still raising this boy, still protecting these streets, still holding on.” My voice cracked but didn’t break. Sometimes, faith felt like an act of defiance, dragging your grief through a Monday and daring it not to consume you.
After drying off, I put on my boxer briefs, dark-wash jeans, and one of the soft, black T-shirts she bought me three birthdays ago—the one with the stretched-out collar from her constant tugging during our hugs. Now, my arms filled it out more, a result of hitting the gym harder lately. I refused to let grief win. I wouldn’t allow pain to have the final say.
After the shower, I stood in front of the mirror and rubbed oil into my beard, brushing it slowly and steadily, just like she used to when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. I always paid attention.
I applied cocoa butter to my chest and shoulders with deliberate care. I had skin to protect, a life to honor, and a son to raise. I sprayed my cologne, Creed Aventus, not because I was headed anywhere special, but because when you smelled good, it was harder to feel dead inside. Today, I needed to feel something, even if it was just the ghost of who I used to be.
As I entered my bedroom, my phone buzzed. That sharp vibration felt louder than it should have in the quiet I had grown accustomed to.
Chambers:
Are you coming in today, or are you still on your grief and grind wave?
I smirked. Ahmad Chambers was a childhood friend of mine. We grew up together and lived just down the street from each other. We did everything together, looked out for one another, played ball, and even got into fights together. He was the brother I never asked for, but I was grateful to have him in my life. Blood couldn’t have made us any closer.
His daughter, Amari, was my goddaughter, and I helped him take care of her after his baby mama left shortly after she was born. We went through the police academy together, and he really showed me he was my brother for life when Temp died. He thought he was being incog-negro, but I knew he had a little crush on my sister Jazz. I don’t know what the hell he was waiting for, but I wished he would put all those lames who tried to get at her out of their misery and shoot his shot already.
Anyway, Chambers always knew how to balance brotherhood with humor, tossing shade with love woven into the jokes. His texts often landed somewhere between checking in and roasting me, but that was his way of keeping me grounded, and I appreciated him for it.
I texted back:
