On August 30th, my mama texted me: “she has made her transition. I have found that disorder can be cathartic in a way that calling out to a God I only believe in when I am in fear cannot. Before I hung up, I promised my mama that I would say a prayer. I could hear the fear and the angst in my mama’s voice that she was so dutifully trying to force back into the depths of her throat lying to herself in the hopes that she could shield me from the death, grief, and hopelessness she knew I had been trying to escape. And August 30th was a normal day of running for me.įive days prior, my mama called to inform me that the coronavirus had made its way into my grandmother’s lungs, punching through her body so forcefully that she had to be rushed to the hospital. Ever since then, I have been on the run from death, grief, and hopelessness. And at the age of 17, I begrudgingly accepted the fact that the game of cat and mouse death and I had been playing since my inception would one day come to an end. And, although I have looked death right in her eyes countless times, my body has always found a way to breach her tight grip - which could be luck, an act of God, or instances of me coming to the realization that I am a God in some way.