

Memories Lod's Puzzle

DEBBIE SONI

Grave la Vision

Memories Lod's Puzzle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Debbie Soni

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the author except for brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.

Cover Copyright © 2014 by Debbie Soni

Second Edition

www.gravelavision.com

Copyright © 2014 First Edition by Debbie Soni

To my family

As we cherish our memories

With special thanks to

  * Emmanuel and Astrid Soni, my dad and mom, for believing that I can achieve great things, for giving of their time and energy to help me realize this work.

  * Salem Soni and Creisson Soni, for their support and for the many laughs along the way.

  * Rosette Luko, Dan Ndombe and the larger family for the encouragement.

  * My friends for the many 'that's great' 'You go girl' 'Let me know when your book comes out, so I can get it'

Merci beaucoup! Many Thanks!

 Debbie Soni

I sit in my living room, with my foot anxiously bouncing on and off the wooden floor in a rhythmic pattern, waiting for the knock on the door. Maisha is certain that Dieudonné will come asking questions as soon as he opens the puzzle box. I can think of many reasons why she thought of me as the best storyteller but I wish she could tell the story herself. She has come to know it by heart.

I step into the kitchen to get myself a cup of water and after two sips, I hear a gentle knock on the door. Dieudonné walks in the house when I invite him in with a wave of my hand. "How are you?" I ask him after swallowing the water in my mouth.

"Good. Thank you." he answers. I show him to the chair in the dining room.

"Tu es le bienvennu, faite comme chez toi," I say in French telling him to make himself at home.

"Merci." Dieudonné thanks me as he places on the table the familiar medium size purple gift box with a red ribbon wrapped around it. "Puis-je vous donner quelque chose a boire? J'ai de l'eau et du jus de mangue." I offer to give him something to drink.

"Water is good, thank you." he answers. I pour a glass of water and place it on the table in front of him.

"Sorry for my bad manners. My name is Lod Vanderson. We have shortly spoken on the phone before."

"I am Dieudonné Samba."

"You must be very happy to be back to your home." I attempt to lighten the awkward mood. "I am. It's been a long time." Dieudonné answers in a rugged tone of voice. He scratches his forehead before arranging the bow of the red ribbon flat on the purple box.

"It must be a little difficult to come back to such a changed place." I say.

"I only have a few lingering good memories but they are easily overpowered and clouded by the memory of that awful day. When the rebels attacked the village, it was a miracle that I was able to run away. After the rebels left the area, I came back to see if my family had run to safety like me but I came to a bloody village. My whole family was killed, mother, father, sisters, brothers, my wife to be, aunts and uncles." Dieudonné explains.

"I am sorry for your loss." I express. Dieudonné nods.

"A total of 56 people were killed that day. I wanted to bury my family members. Mais qui aller enterer les autres. Alors je fuis le village en pleur. J'avais dix-huit ans et j'etais le seul survivant." Dieudonné's words filled me with sorrow. To think that as a seventeen year old boy, he had to endure the horrifying sight of dead bodies and make the decision to bury or not to bury his family members. He asked himself at that moment who would bury the other villagers. Although he knew that he was the only survivor and able body; he could not and did not want to take such a heavy burden on himself; so he ran as fast and as far as he could.

"For years, I never wanted to come back here. And I knew I was the only survivor until I heard about Maisha. At first I didn't want to believe that someone else had survived, surtout une amie d'enfance. But days after hearing about Maisha's work in our village, mon esprit a revisiter ce jour la et confirme que je n'avais pas vu le corps de Maisha parmi les morts."

"I am sure it was not easy revisiting the past. It can a strenuous experience for the heart but at least it helped you confirm that Maisha could have actually survived that day." I tell him.

"It was a relief to know that someone else had survived and understood the pain I was going through. So I did not waste time and called Maisha." Late Monday afternoon, when Dieudonné called, I answered Maisha's office phone. Dieudonné introduced himself; although the name sounded familiar to me, at the time I did not understand why. I passed the phone to Maisha. He introduced himself to her and began explaining that he was Dieudonné, her old childhood friend. To help her remember, he began to tell her of some of the childhood memories they shared. Maisha put the phone on speaker so that I could hear their conversation and barely said a word. She looked at me for answer, I nodded at her and she hastily invited Dieudonné to come visit the village during the weekend. With her crazy schedule, Maisha had forgotten when she invited Dieudonné that she would be away from the village attending an important meeting in Kinshasa during the weekend.

"I'm glad you called. It made her very happy to hear that you survived. And I am sorry that she is not here to tell you her amazing story and hear yours." I say.

"She told me, tu peux m'aider a comprendre son cadeau. Pourquoi des pieces de puzzle?" Dieudonné asked.

"The puzzle box might seem a little crazy when you first look at it but I can help you make sense of Maisha's gift to you." I answer. Without uttering a word, I request the permission to open the box. I reach for it and open it to find a smaller box. A puzzle box. I open the puzzle box to display the colorful puzzle pieces with black writings and drawings on them.

"This puzzle is really just a long story." I explain. "She asked me to write the story, and then asked me to imprint the story onto puzzle pieces. You'll come to better understand her reasons as I tell the story."

"I wanted to solve it, I started but then I realized it was harder than I anticipated. So I remembered that the day I arrived and saw the gift, she called me to say that I could come see you if I needed help." Dieudonné says.

"Solving the puzzle is the key to understanding the thought behind her gift. Maisha was the brain behind the making of this puzzle. She and I solved it together, so I know how to solve it. But it was especially easy for me to solve it because it's my story, at least a part of my life story told through every word and drawing on each piece." I explain.

I have known the story by heart for the past years; as I tell it to him, we can solve the puzzle together, one puzzle piece at a time. He will come to better understand why this is Maisha's gift to him.

"The story doesn't start at the beginning of my life but it starts at a time when my life was changing my perspective on memories, the present and the future. And it starts where Maisha though it would be best to start." I make space on the dining table and pick up the first puzzle piece and place it on the table.

"Maisha wanted the puzzle's story to begin at a time when my life was turning for the better..."

May 2010

Soccer prep practice for college was hard today. I don't think it ever gets easier as you pursue higher heights in this sport. More practices, more tournaments, more obligations till you crack. Today might be the day to reminisce on the difficult times. Plus understand the kind of pressure dad was in and how all that pressure messed him up. 'Choosing to be the best is choosing to do anything and everything to be the best.' That used to be Dad's motto. He found out the hard way how wrong that motto can really be.

By the age of two, Dad's future had been planned. He was born in a community of soccer fanatics who believed he could make it in the sport. 'He played since he wore diapers,' grandma always says. She had become a soccer mom while pregnant with her third child. Her son, my father, Ilan Vanderson was the pride of the family because of his soccer skills. His unmistakable talents along the years proved it. No wonder dad started training me from a young age. He wanted the phrase 'Like father, like son' to be a reality in our lives. I have been playing soccer since I was three. My friends always joke that I will probably retire from soccer three years before I turn a hundred years old since I started three years after being born. As if they expect me to only live for 100 years. Why not more, way to go friends. I don't know how they expect me to play for that many years when prep practices for college are already making me feel like an old man with old bones and worn out muscles.

"Going down these stairs is torture in the real sense of the word" I tell mom as I slowly make my way down each step. She stares at me from the bottom of the stairs, faking a compassionate smile. She is probably having a laughing party in her head.

"I'm right here with a big hug" she says opening her arms as if ready to hug away my pain.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, her hug just melts me like butter. Because of her touch I can barely feel my legs and pains.

"Oh my, you're so heavy" she laughs lifting my aching body. I put my left arm around her neck; she places one hand around my waist and the other hand on my chest and walks me to the sofa. After leaving me on the sofa, she walks to the fridge to put together some packs of ice for my aching legs, arms and a warmer for my back.

"You're working yourself too hard" she says displeased by my moaning caused by the pain I feel as the cold from the ice reaches the inner parts of my body. "Just like your father did..." mom adds.

"Ma'!" I cut her off knowing that the next thing she wants to say will completely destroy the mood.

She doesn't finish her sentence and puts the warmer on my back. She knows best, to drop the subject and let things go. Most of our arguments about my resemblance to dad, especially in sport, usually leave the family with hours of awkward chats and unharmonious family dinners. Despite that knowledge she might give it another shot, so I might as well change the subject before any conversation about dad's past gets out of hand.

"It smells amazing." I attempt to change the subject.

"Your sisters' favorite. Their day, their food." she says smiling. She strokes my dark hair and plants a kiss on my forehead before heading to the kitchen. Her soft touch is very soothing. I make myself comfortable on the sofa and slowly reach for a book on the table.

Without paying much attention to what I'm reaching for, I pick up dad's autobiography.

"Oh no. Not this one," I whisper to myself.

Dad wrote a biography four years ago. The book came out a month after the twins were born. I've only read a few pages of that book. I have always dreaded reading the full book because of what it has to say about the past. Dad's past. Usually, I read the last chapters about his present life with mom, Lila, Leola and me. The other parts of the book are all I relive in my nightmares and reading about them does not make me any happier. When I am reminded of those days, my nightmares escalate. I'm too haunted by them and I choose not to read them all over again.

The only time I ever challenge myself is on the field. Even in school, I don't take many risks. But after such a crazy day on the field, I feel like I can be challenged by anything and take on any challenge. I can go through anything and come out strong. Even this simple book. It won't own me or my nights even if I read it from cover to cover.

I open the book. Inside it, in the acknowledgement page, I find mom's name, Leola and Lila's names and my name. When I take a closer look at the whole page, it is written 'For my treasures forever: my son Lod, my daughters Leola and Lila, and my wife Veera. With Love'.

Being acknowledged first makes me smile for some odd reason. It feels good to have my name acknowledged first in a book. Dad's book for that matter. He started with my name. It is such a privilege to be that important to someone. To him, especially after all we've been through together. Processing that discovery through my head. I am trying my best not to tear up. I am a man and men don't show tears; especially not when reading a book about another man. And most of all even though I am on the sofa with my back to the kitchen, I can feel mom's eyes staring at me. I don't want her to see me tearing up. Then I would have to answer her questions on the matter. It is preferable not to go there.

"Pull yourself together and flip the page", I whisper to myself.

Dad starts his story from the beginning. Grandpa introducing him to soccer and grandma's dream of being a soccer mom and seeing her baby succeed. There are pictures throughout the book that prove just that. The first one is one of dad's, in diapers, wearing a small English jersey. Outside playing with a soccer ball. He wasn't kidding when he talked about playing since he was in diapers. The photo proves it. Grandpa and Grandma were determined to train him into becoming a champion in the sport.

The next chapters focus on dad's young success. His elementary school games in his cool jerseys. The many goals he scored in middle school. His high school years are very interesting. The 1970's were something else. The clothes, the hair, what they called fun would be considered weird and ancient in our days. I'm glad to live in the 21st century.

Dad writes of the many games he played for the varsity team. He talks about meeting mom and falling for her during their junior year in High School. He writes of his senior year, his many practices for the college tryouts and his desire to make it into a great college and team and pursue his dream of playing professionally.

He talks about marrying mom a month after graduating from college and having me a year later. He writes of the joy of starting a family and the pressure of making sure to provide for that family.

In the Blackpool F.C. chapter, dad talks about his desire to really pursue professional soccer. He shares about the connections he made with people who were willing to help him make it into the Blackpool F.C. team. He had great hopes of making the team. He showed off his talent and was propelled farther. He started getting offers from other sport agencies that wanted to represent him to even bigger teams like Arsenal. He mentions his shift from wanting to be part of Blackpool to having great hopes of playing for Arsenal.

A sharp pain enters every part of my body as I connect this period of his life to the many troubles that still haunt me today. I feel uncomfortable reading the rest but I am determined to face what he said about his past and how it affected us all. He mentions the many parties that connected him with people who could sponsor him and put a good word in for him to make it into the professional soccer world. Then even more expensive parties. Excessive parties brought excessive spending. Casual drinking turned to careless drinking which led to drug use. Dad clearly states every mistake, every faux-pas, and the pressures of the sport which led to more drinking and drugs. He tells of the time when he got worse and spent less and less time with the family. He writes of the many times he tried to look sane, sober and be the exemplary father and husband to impress the cameras, even though the family was falling apart.

Around this time, I remember mom decided to move back to the United States. Dad in the contrary decided to stay in England. Their dissimilar decisions open the door for him to get worse. Adding to him getting worse were the pressures of wanting to be the best. His fear of being surpassed by the younger generation coming into the sport and the uncertainties of being part of the soccer professional world destroyed his confidence.

Drinking heavily became his only way to cope with not measuring up to the expectations. The discontentment with his own performance and life turned him to a life controlled by drug and alcohol use. He writes of bringing me to England one summer and losing me in Cheltenham, in the middle of the night after excessive drinking. After that incident he came home with me and tried to work it out with mom. As things seemed to turn for the better, one night he went out with friends and came home completely drunk. That night he blamed my mother for his failures and physically took out his anger on her. Despite the bruises and pains, mom stayed very patient. She took her time and believed that things would change. But she was mistaken. Dad was not planning on turning a new leaf. He writes of the day he got drunk during one of my soccer matches and we got into a car accident on our way to the house. Till this day I still don't understand how all the other parents who witnessed my drunken father get in the car, let me get in the same car when they knew how drunk he was. He writes of surviving the accident, not being charged for DUI by 'buying the system', even though the accident caused the loss of hearing in my right ear.

He tells of the many overdoses and medical trips I witnessed when mom would allow me to visit him for weekends and holidays during their separation. He shares of how disheveled and broken he was, both physically and mentally, that playing soccer professionally became a blurred out dream. He talks about the depression period, the alcoholism and the drug addiction.

In the next chapter he talks a little bit about losing our father-son connection and losing mom's affection and the many uncertainties of their divorce. The pain he saw in the eyes of his parents who felt responsible for pushing him too hard.

I give a sigh of relief when I realize that I am now in the happier section of the book. I'm mostly happy to get to this point of the book without any bad mentions of me. Dad hasn't mentioned any of the things that happened with me when I tried to deal with not having a good father figure around. He probably did not mention anything for my own good. And I'm certain he didn't want to focus on it because my past actions with him can destroy my future if exposed before I even embark on my own soccer journey. That is so thoughtful of him but I don't mind proving to the world that I'm not the boy I was and that I am determined not to be like my father, but to be a better man.

Dad's crazy life made him miserable. He wanted to find his way to a better version of Ilan Vanderson. Turning to the parents who knew him best was the first decision he made in making sure that he could become a better man. He talks about how he wished he could have made things right before they got worse. He goes deeper into his rehab period at his parents' house. That chapter really focuses on his relationship with his parents and siblings as they helped him be all new. He speaks of the role his parents' church played in helping him see the importance of stronger faith in God than in the things the world can offer.

In my favorite part of the book, he talks of the seven years of hell that changed him into the man he is today. He shares about how those years taught him the importance of memories, both good and bad. He talks about the usefulness of joyful and painful experiences in the shaping of better men and women.

Dad and mom never signed the divorce papers according to dad's book. This is something new to my knowledge of their relationship at that time. It has always seemed to me as if they had signed the papers, but they never did. So they never technically divorced.

He finishes the book talking about how bringing into the world two beautiful twin girls taught him that life is more than just obtaining a dream, it's also attaining the many happiness of life that make that dream worth experiencing.

I sigh. Close the book, and place it back on the table. I can't help but smile. Mostly because I now feel stupid for dreading the day I would decide or be required to read the entirety of such a great book.

"That was a good book." I say hoping mom hears me say it. I look back and am disappointed she is not in the kitchen. She headed upstairs hours ago. It's been three hours since I started reading the book. We haven't eaten yet and dad and the girls are late for dinner.

Mom runs down the stairs to the door as I get the cold water and warmer off my body.

"Your dad and your sisters are back" she says as she walks out to greet them.

I stand, feeling much better than when I got back from practice and greet them at the door. The girls are wearing their soccer outfits, holding their little trophies. "We won, we won. We're champions. We're champions" they both chant in unison. Their team won the championship.

Despite my pain, I lift them both and run around the house screaming 'we're champions'. And mom decides to be our cheerleader and chants "Yeah my champions, yeah my champions. I love my champions." Fun times indeed. My dad sits on the couch watching us celebrate for the next five minutes. The smile on his face is unmistakably huge and inerasable. After our celebration, we sit at the table and have dinner. We chat about my killer practice, my sisters' awesome winning game and our parents' business advancement.

Dinner ends with my dad and mom kissing in the kitchen while washing the dishes. I sit with the girls in the living room, helping them with homework.

From time to time, I look up and see the happiness in my parents' eyes. When I look up as they are drying the plates, my eyes meet dad's eyes. He smiles; I smile back and give my attention back to the girls.

As I play with Leola's hair, she turns and smiles at me.

"I'm glad to have my dad back," I whisper to myself. But Lila hears me despite my attempt to be very hushed. "I'm happy to have you Lod" she says jumping in my arms. "I'm happy to have you Lod" Leola repeats as she also jumps on me. My heart more than melts; it skips a beat at hearing my sisters. I playfully tickle them to lots of laughs.

"So how are you feeling so far?" I ask Dieudonné.

"I am surprised that " he answers. "You mean my relationship with my dad is interesting." I laugh.

"My football loving dad, he passed that football love down to me, that's for sure. Our love for soccer has always created the kind of impact he had and still has in my life. His involvement in our lives and the many things our family went through made us stronger." I tell Dieudonné.

"That is why I said interesting."Dieudonné confirms.

I look at the puzzle and realize that we have only gotten a tiny part of the top left corner of the puzzle and we still have what seem to be millions of pieces left in the box.

"Let's continue then."

June 2010

First a gasp for air, then my heart starts beating faster than the rhythmic flap of a bee's wings. On the floor losing consciousness by the second. A girl comes by my side and puts my head on her lap. I look up at her. Desperate to get her attention. I can tell that she's stoned. She might be my only hope of getting out of this state. But she's too busy drinking from a bottle of some alcoholic beverage. I'm desperate for help. Can someone help me, I can't breathe! I scream for dad. No answer. Fear sets in as I realize I'm all alone with this incoherent girl.

I open my eyes and realize that it is just a dream. I take a breath in, hoping that I'm able to breathe normally, and then breathe out. And I can feel my lungs fill up with air. Cool, fresh air. I'm on my bed. At home, unharmed and healthy. I gather my thoughts and stay calm till my heart goes back to normal.

It's just a dream, I whisper to myself.

The house is so quiet. No craziness happening. It's been five years of great memorable times. Mom is happily sleeping beside the love of her life. Recapturing lost times, in each other's arms. Leola and Lila are deeply asleep; probably in some princess world having tea with all their teddy bears. In my room, I hear the air conditioning turn on and blow the cool air in the room. The bed is comfy and the warm sheets make me think of mom's warm embrace. Everything in this room calls for the perfect night sleep. Six years ago if someone had told me that my life would be this good again, I would have disagreed.

But despite all the wonderful things that should encourage awesome everyday night sleep, one thing hasn't quite changed for the better. I'm lying on my bed, wide awake, unable to push these nightmares away.

Every time I close my eyes, I can't help but remember the memories I would rather forget. The horrible movie starts as soon as I rest my head on the pillow and drift off to sleep. Not really my desired every night experience; actually my most hated every night experience. Awake because of these stupid nightmares. Nightmares of a past far behind me. I want to sleep without my thoughts and nightmares bringing those bad memories back to life.

I don't want to remember but I can't help but breath in, lie there motionless, revisiting the past, most hated memories of the seven nightmarish years of the less memorable times of my life. These memories are haunting my spirit once again as I realize that it has been five years since life has gone my way, the right way. I don't see the need in closing my eyes and remembering the past all night long. I would rather be having tea with my sisters in their greatly imaginative dreams than to be on my bed, deprived of good memories or good things to look forward to in my sleep.

Just fall asleep, I whisper to myself a little annoyed. Everyone is fine and everything is fine. And most of all, Dad's home! I can't be any happier with my present life. The past is past and I have no desire to revisit it.

Speaking to myself and encouraging myself to accomplish something often gets me a goal on the soccer field. But it's not getting me to sleep on this bed.

I get off my bed and walk around, doing one insignificant thing, then another. I can't seem to invite a good night sleep. I go to my drawer and take out a huge box of puzzle pieces but stand unmoved by a desire to solve it.

After a long hour debating in my head on whether to do the puzzle or get chocolate milk in the kitchen, I make my way out of the room with the puzzle box in my arms. Milk with eighteen drops of chocolate syrup and another round of puzzle solving will fix me right up, I whisper.

Just like dad taught me when I was three. I remember it so well. I fussed that night during bedtime. Mom didn't know how to deal with me. Dad took over and said to me "What about a cup of milk with chocolate syrup, then sleep?" I smiled; he poured the milk in the glass and said "three drops of chocolate syrup for the three year old Lod."

From then on, every time I took a cup of chocolate milk, I would put drops of chocolate syrup corresponding to my age. Silly but it became a tradition because dad always said that 'the best milk chocolate can only be made when mixing milk with the drops of chocolate syrup that match the age of the person who will drink it.' Silly.

But maybe remembering great traditions is what I need. A cup of milk with eighteen drops will remind me of the good times I had with dad. Consequently get me to sleep my mind clear of the past.

Seventeen drops later, as I'm about to let one more drop into my milk, my hand shakes and I press the syrup bottle a little too hard. I pour more drops than I intended as a reflex to mom's hummed "hum" in the darkness of the kitchen.

"You scared me" I say softly laughing. Mom secures her robe by tying the string around her waist. "Is everything okay?" she asks worried. She makes her way to the kitchen's mini bar. I sit on one of the stools. Stir my drink, quietly. When I look up and make eye contact, she comes by my side and smiles. Her smile brings back great memories of my childhood. Times when dad was around and mom was the happiest. Most of all it reminds me of the day she walked down the aisle for a second time. Their 15th year anniversary vow renewal ceremony. She had a long beautiful white dress, white shoes, a big white flower head piece and greenish pink and white bouquet of flowers. She looked beautiful. At the reception, dad kept saying that she looked even more beautiful than when he first married her.

Mom never stopped smiling that whole day. Seeing her smile again just sent a sense of peace through every vein in my heart. A sensation, that maybe those veins can pump great memories to my head and turn this night around.

"I'm good mom." I say gently stirring the milk chocolate. She calmly walks to the fridge, opens it, pours herself a cup of milk. "Are you going to drink that?" she asks looking at the syrup bottle to hint the amount of drops I poured in my milk. She takes my cup of chocolate milk. "You definitely did not put less than nineteen drops." She laughs. Being a sucker for traditions, especially this one, I must comply with the tradition and make myself another cup.

"I bet that your milk definitely has enough drops to be your grandfather's age" she says putting her hand over her mouth to cover her laugh. Mom loves to smile and especially laugh at my mistakes. She tries her best to keep our house laughing every day and I've always been the source of our many great laughs. She's probably going to use this one as another of her great jokes.

"Want to switch?" she asks as she picks up my cup. "You already have a cup" I point out. She lowers her eyes to the glass of milk she poured to hint that I take it.

She takes a sip of the cup she took from me. "Hum, good." she smiles. I put my eighteenth drop in the glass of milk she poured when she takes another sip. "Do I have to call your uncle Mike?" she asks as I take a sip of my milk chocolate.

"No ma', I'm okay!" I object choking on my milk. I let out two weak but manly coughs. "I just wanted milk. And do a little puzzle solving... I just wanted to breathe in the good times. That's all."

She gives me a suspicious glare, and then puts her head down. Mom always knows best, especially when I try to cleverly hide things. But this time I don't want to worry her with this past issue and temporary reoccurrence of a past we've all put behind us. I want her to rest assured that I'm doing just fine. She has had too many years of dealing with my sleepless nights and nightmares. I don't want her worrying about the same thing again; especially now, during the good times. "This night is not going to be a repeat of the past years," I say as I reach for her hand, "Life is back to normal and I will be dreaming on my bed as soon as my cup is empty." I drink up even faster.

Even though I am trying to calm her spirit so that she doesn't ask more questions or decide to call Uncle Mike, I really want what I said to be my reality tonight. I'm so tired of these sleepless nights.

"Okay, just know that I love you and that we're all here for you, your sisters, your father. And I'm here for you." she says sentimentally. She smiles and I smile back. I take my last sip, walk to her and place a kiss on her cheek. "I love you" she says. "I love you" I say wholeheartedly.

I place my empty cup in the sink. "You've got chocolate milk on your cheek," I joke as I walk away. She feels her sticky cheek and grins.

By the time I reach the inside balcony, I hear water pour out of the sink. I know she must still be worried about me, probably staring at the soapy water, wondering what will be her next move in helping me. I hope everything goes back to normal in her head and that she doesn't take any drastic decisions to help me when I've already told her not to worry.

"I have learned through different experiences that life is really a big universe of memories and stories. We have good and bad memories. And from time to time we have things or events that remind us of either the good or the bad memories. But it was difficult to look beyond an awful past or bad memories when they invaded even my nights. It wasn't fair for me to go through this and for my loved ones to have to deal with it and with me." I say.

"I can relate." Dieudonné tells me. We sit there quietly for a minute before I go on with the story.

I walk in my room, put my puzzle box on the desk, jump on my bed, and go under my warm sheets. "Now sleep" I whisper to myself.

I scream for dad. No answer. I scream again and he appears. Completely drunk with a wine bottle in his hand. "Yes," he blurts out. He's so stoned that he loses his balance and falls backward on the sofa and starts laughing. "Don't worry. Stop panting like a baby," he says. "Enjoy it." Breathing becomes harder to do. Air gets more and more scarce. I take another breath, my heart expands, then it lets go and fails me. I lie there. I am dead. I can see myself lying dead on the dirty floor. My death doesn't create a worry or action from anyone. Not even dad. Why?!

Another nightmarish night, I whisper to myself as I open my eyes. The continuation of the first nightmare wakes me up around 5am.

By six the nightmare is so engraved in my memory that I am unable to fall back to sleep.

It is currently 7am and I'm trying to clear my head of all the nightmarish nonsense and start my day the right way.

I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, I start getting breakfast ready and putting lunch together for the girls. Dad walks in the kitchen.

"Hey. Omelets. Yes" he exclaims. I pass him a plate. He sits and takes a bite. "So you want to talk about it?" he asks. Dad has been asking me to talk to him about my nightmares but I haven't had the courage or even the desire to tell him about any of them. I don't know what to tell him. Where to start or how to tell them.

"Your mother told me. We're worried about you. I'm worried about you. It's been four consecutive days of nightmares. We want to help you. You can talk to me." he adds.

Dad has known about my nightmares for the past five years and has tried to get me the best help but nothing has worked. He even said that maybe by talking to him about them, things will get better. But I don't want him any farther in my head than he already is. Most of all, I want to keep the great relationship I now have with him and telling him these nightmares might mess up what took time to rebuild.

"I'm okay Dad, don't worry. I will be fine. It's just a short phase. It will go away as soon as I get focused on more important things. Like finishing high school. I have to shower." I say. He doesn't push further. He knows that I know he means well and that's all that matters. I leave the kitchen quietly.

"My father always wanted me to tell him what I saw in my nightmares but I didn't want to do that, I wasn't comfortable with telling him anything. For the wellbeing of the family and for my own sanity I tried to forget what had happened and what was happening." I say.

"I'm sorry, it must have been hard. Believe me I can relate. It is hard to tell the people we love what we went through and the impact those things have in our present life." Dieudonné says.

"Yeah, exactly. I have learned that some things are better not revisited, unless if you have to deal with them before moving forward. Then maybe telling them is a good thing." I tell him. "She taught me that. But let's not jump too ahead."

"Okay. Let's continue" he tells me.

"Hi dad." Miradel says as she makes her way to me. I take her in my arms and sit her on my lap. "Hi honey. Did you sleep well?" I ask. She nods. I kiss her forehead.

"Miradel, this Mr. Dieudonné. He is a good friend of your mother." They shake hands and Miradel curls herself in my arms and I hold her tighter to keep her warm.

"You want breakfast?" I ask her. She nods and smiles. "Okay, what about you keep Mr. Dieudonné company as I tell the story and you guys figure out the puzzle. Remember the puzzle? You know the story." I show Miradel.

"She knows the story and we solve the puzzle many times during the year." I tell Dieudonné.

"Oh, you have a copy of the same puzzle?!" he asks. "Yes we do, one is her gift to you and the other is a gift to Miradel and me." I explain.

"Well, while we continue, let me put together something for breakfast." I excuse myself and take a few steps to the kitchen. I continue telling the story as Miradel and Dieudonné solve the puzzle together.

June- July 2010

The Dad Award goes to Ilan Vanderson; for his abiding devotion to his son. That would be the line to use if dad was really being given such an award. If there was a yearly father award I would give it to him. I'm running this idea through my head as I pack for my much anticipated trip. I can't believe I'm actually packing for a trip to South Africa. It's not my first time out of the country, but this trip is on a level that cannot be compared to anything else.

More than a week ago at my graduation party slash birthday party, Dad stood to give a speech and the last words he said changed this summer.

With a glass of sparkling juice in his hands; the preferred non-alcoholic beverage because of family history with other impairing beverages, dad starts his speech by thanking everyone for coming. He thanks his parents and his siblings. He praises the love of his life, mom. He exalts his lovely daughters and then gets to me. He speaks of the wonderful son I am, the blessing I am in his life and my talented soccer skills. "I spoke with your trainers and coaches and they have all told me how talented you are. I couldn't help but say to them 'duh, he's my son,'" he expresses as laughs sweep through the crowd.

"And they have also told me how ready you are for your college soccer career," dad says enthusiastically.

"So I got to thinking of a way to reward you for graduating, for turning nineteen, and for diligently preparing yourself for college. I tried to think of a better way for you to experience soccer this summer. Then I remembered that 2010 is the year....of the World Cup....in South Africa."

He didn't have to carry on with his speech because as soon as he put World Cup and South Africa in the same sentence, he had won me over.

I'm heading to South Africa for more than a month. Zaine has been fussing all weekend still can't believe it. He even joked about trying to find a way to fit in my suitcase. When I refused the suitcase idea, he tried to play the 'I am Lod's best friend' card to convince dad to bring him along. But he does understand that this trip is a time for dad and me alone. The father-son trip of a lifetime. The thought of it makes me hop on and off my bed, going from one side of my room to the other. A little too kangaroo like. Then I have to remind myself that I am a nineteen-year-old and should act like one.

My eyes can't wait to live it all live, watching the best and most watched sport in the world. The world will be watching on their TVs while I experience it all in the VIP section. Experiencing every goal, dribble, block, tackle, scream, chant, whistle, and the excitement of the game; it is a life's dream.

"Experiencing South Africa World Cup live. That must have been exciting."Dieudonné says.

I take out pans and eggs to make scrambled eggs. "Soccer has always been my life and it was always my father's life as well. Sharing it together during one of the world's most watched and most celebrated events, was such an unbelievable experience. And it was in Africa. I couldn't help but be excited" I say. "My father was even more excited. He bought me a journal before our launch into the world cup. As a lover and writer of written words, he hoped that I would journal my everyday experiences."

"He was planning on writing a book about the 2010 world cup from the point of view of a father-son experience. He hoped that he would glean from my journal as good input for the book. I journaled every day and I really enjoyed writing about our time there." I explain.

I put scrambled eggs, two toasts, sliced mango pieces on three plates. I give a plate to Miradel, another to Dieudonné and the other I place on the table for myself. I put hot water, packs of tea, milk, sugar and three cups on the corner of the table. I pull a chair and join them at the table.

"Thank you" Dieudonné says.

"Thank you Dad" Miradel tells me.

"Enjoy," I say.

Journal entry June 8

Arriving in Johannesburg is more than what I imagined. Everything reminds of the excitement this month has in store. Pictures of the world cup. People wearing soccer jerseys. Crazy excitement.

Dad diligently planned everything. A nice limousine picks us up at the airport.

"Is that our ride?" I ask. "You really went all out on this, huh."

He smiles and nods as we get into the limo while our suitcases are placed in the trunk. First and only stop of the day is the hotel; where dad booked a nice suite. The trip has been a very long one. I wouldn't mind sleeping and dealing with this jetlag for now.

I climb in the sheets and make my way to my first night sleep in South Africa. I wish it to be nightmare-free and for every night to be nightmare free.

Journal entry June 9

Morning, no nightmares, the journey has begun. I've never seen such a beautiful sunrise. For the first time this week, I'm up early morning, not because of nightmares but awaken by such beauty and expectative enthusiasm.

Shower and then breakfast is brought to the room. Dad has taken care of every detail for our stay. And since we have arrived three days before the opening ceremony, Dad and I get to travel around the city. I'm glad that he has decided to visit the country before the games consume our days. I'm also glad that I did my own homework on the country so that I can impress dad with how much I know. I did some reading on the city of Johannesburg; the largest city in South Africa by population. It is the world's largest city not situated on a river, a lake, or a coastline. I learned some things through a few Google searches, but the scenery and the people of this country make their country worth experiencing in person.

In my head, our first stop should be a place where I can see all the animals I have always seen on TV. Africa is renowned for its diversified types of animals. I can't leave Africa without seeing them. Of course not.

But dad seems to have other plans and I'm realizing it because our bus tour has just dropped us off at the Apartheid Museum. No wonder I didn't really understand why our tour guy was only speaking of the apartheid when I wanted him to focus on the giraffes, gorillas and elephants we were going to see. This museum does not have the fun feel of a Safari. It is quiet serious. I read in a book that most visitors find themselves emotionally upset by its meticulous chronicling of the past history and its lasting memories.

The journey through this museum begins with the harsh reality of how our view of differences has shaped this world. You are first given passes that state that you're either white or of another race. Then your eyes capture the realities behind racial profiling. Then you are overwhelmed by the all-white race classification board. I'm mostly overwhelmed by how cruel humankind can be toward human beings from different races. As I keep on reading and watching, apartheid's history gets more violent, I start realizing what Pastor Baker always says in church. 'We have all fallen short and we need to be saved and changed by God's grace.' Our evil destroys this earth, one human being at a time. But our faith and love helps us believe for a better place.

Nelson Mandela and many others, who stood for justice and truth in this country, understood that call to action. They carried out a mission without backing down, especially when all hope seemed lost.

This history leaves me speechless. On my way back to the bus, I barely have anything to tell dad. And I can tell that neither does he know what to say to me. I'm still processing all that I have learned in there. It can be quite easy to experience such a visit and leave unchanged. I decide to be changed by it. I pray that it will always flood my mind and remind me of the purpose of my calling, whatever it might be.

After dinner, Dad and I sit to talk. He asks me about my experience today and I can't seem to find the words to answer him. And so he tells me that "memories are beneficial parts of life. And no matter how good or bad they seem to be, we have something to glean from them."

I'll never forget that. For the first time, I thought of my nightmares and smiled about them. Dad has learned so much over the years and today was a day when just two sentences he said will always impact the way I look at things.

Journal entry June 11

My excitement level has been high since Raleigh. I just can't wait to be immersed in the South African World Cup experience. We arrive at the stadium for the greatly anticipated opening ceremony. A beautiful stadium inspired by the calabash, used as a symbol of welcome, friendship and hospitality in the African culture. South Africa made sure to incorporate the diversity and beauty of this continent into every detail of everything we are to experience during this World Cup. History is a big part of this country and they did include it in the opening ceremony as a reminder for everyone to strive in creating hope.

The African melting pot was such a great touch in the ceremony. It showed the diversity of this continent. The colorful and beautiful clothing, the dancing and the singing, the young and the old are the details that really represent the continent of Africa. This opening definitely blew my mind and exceeded my expectations. Africa has shown once again that it has so much to offer to this world.

Soccer City Stadium is full of people and excitement. People came for a great opening ceremony and just witnessed a great debut. They are ready for a great first game to set the tone for the rest of the World Cup.

The first game is between South Africa and Mexico in Johannesburg. They are two good teams going into this game expecting a good start. But I hope each team realizes the strength of the opponents. And the determination that drives each player and fan present. It is looking good for South Africa when Tshabalala scores at the 55th minute. The stadium goes wild. It's as if the vuvuzelas are even louder. Mexico responds with a goal from Marquez at the 79th minute.

"A tie always keeps the mood a little cooler for countries and teams," I comment in a conversation Dad is having with an old friend of his.

I've been meeting a lot of people; especially many of Dad's old friends and a few of his teammates. It feels so amazing to be included in the circle of soccer greatness and to have a father who also had a good career in this great sport despite the rough times.

What a great game is the way I can describe this opening match. South Africa and Mexico are tied at the end. They have set a tone that simply tells every player and fan, that the competition is fierce.

Journal entry June 23

It has been two weeks since we've been in South Africa. I wake up every day with great expectations and everything I experience during the day exceeds my expectations.

Today is the third U.S. game. It has been pretty tight for the U.S. so far. I hope this match will shine more hope on the future of the U.S. team in this World Cup.

"And it's the goal" dad shouts as we both cheer for the U.S. goal against Algeria. The crowd goes wild. "We're moving forward. Let's go USA." I chant. I can barely hear myself scream with the vuvuzelas sounding in the background. Their sound makes the stadium feel like a beehive but without the stings and bees. The feeling of this experience is like no other. Such excitement.

Celebrations are in order after such a hopeful game for the U.S. Dad, his friends, and I go out in the great city of Pretoria to celebrate. We're thinking nice ribs, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables and good ice tea to celebrate the American way.

What a day. What a day indeed.

Journal entry June 26

We travel once again to another city to see a U.S. game. Many great cities. Another great stadium. Such great architecture. The beauty of the game and of the host country and its people is enough to make this trip super amazing. Round 16, I can feel the pressure. The winners head to the quarterfinals. Ghana is the team to beat if the U.S. is to be a step closer to getting that cup.

Things start to concern me when Ghana scores five minutes into the game. Five minutes into the game, quiet embarrassing and terrifying.

Past half time, it's now time for the U.S. to step up and still earn a spot in the quarterfinals.

A penalty kick and goal for the US. We're not going down that easy. At the end of the 90 minutes, the U.S. players can breathe and regroup before going back in the field.

Extra time begins well, three minutes later, a Ghanaian player outruns to U.S. players and scores. It is becoming a pattern. The U.S. is showing a slow momentum after the beginning whistle and that signals the other team to attack and score. The U.S. should have scored in those first five minutes of extra time. Sweating to bring about a goal under pressure doesn't usually work out for the losing team.

At the end, the U.S. played its best and gave a show to its fan. It's difficult to see a loss come out of such hard work but maybe next World Cup will be better.

It is quite disappointing but there's still Brazil and Spain in the picture. Brazil for Zaine and Spain for my love for Barcelona. I can't go wrong with that.

Journal entry July 2

During the intense game between Ghana and Uruguay, I get a Facebook message from Zaine telling me to check my emails. In the emails I find the names of the players in the college team and the schedule of games and practices. Zaine and I made the primary game list.

Once I tell dad the great news, he doesn't stop bragging about the talented son I am. He invites his friends to a famous grill place in Johannesburg and we literally spend the whole night talking about soccer. And we also have awesome food. I have never had so much fun; ever, especially clean fun with this many adults. By the time we get back to the hotel, Baruti, our driver a Congolese immigrant, tells me it is almost 4am.

All I remember of that night are great talks and more great talks that lasted hours. Tonight really makes me question why dad would turn to so many bad behaviors when he had great teammates and friends. Most of his teammates and friends, from back in the days, do not even mention what happened to him during the seven crazy years. It is as if they never witnessed it or never coerced him into the lifestyle that destroyed his career before it really jolted. In his book, Dad doesn't mention the names of those who pressured him into a lifestyle of drugs, alcohol and dealings. He did mention to me that everything started when he started hanging out with the wrong crowd. Especially Eli Chambers' crowd. But he has never gone into more details than that. I'm learning so much more about dad and it is great to see this side of him. A side even his entourage recognizes as his real nature.

Journal entry July 12

Spain, the soccer champion of the world. Who would have thought?! I had my money on Brazil but they didn't even reach the semifinals. Zaine must have been so unhappy about Brazil's loss. I cannot wait to tell him about the many great things I experienced here. I took enough videos and pictures to give him a little look at the awesome things I experienced.

"You know Dieudonné, I couldn't have asked for a better birthday and graduation present. And I had my dad to thank for that. He introduced me to a different world." I say.

July 2010

The limousine brings us to the airport. As I get out of the limo, I realize how much I'm going to miss this place. The welcome of the people, the tastiness of the food, the beauty of living in this city and the many good memories I have made in the wonderful country of South Africa are all carved in me as monumental life experiences.

I am having this weird feeling that my travel home might be long and interesting. There are so many people at the airport. Even though I'm not in a hurry to leave this place, I am impatiently waiting for the time I get to see my family and tell everyone about this adventure.

Busyness and crowdedness cannot even explain the site of this airport. So many people are leaving the country. The crowd is building up by the minute. Judging from the jerseys, the silly fanatic outfits and the vuvuzelas in the hands of mostly children, most of those traveling came to South Africa for the World Cup.

While Baruti gets our suitcases out of the limo, I get lost in my thoughts as I watch people interact with one another. Some are happy, some sad, some are way too hyper, some sleepy, some are quiet and some are really loud. I get back to reality when I turn my attention to dad. He hugs and thanks Baruti for his services. "Thank you Baruti, Baie Dankie" I articulate with the little Afrikaans I remember from Baruti's daily lessons. We hug and then shake hands.

Dad and I hurry to the checking lines to make sure that we check in on time. We wait on the line with our many suitcases and the line doesn't seem to get any shorter. Dad steps out of the line when he receives a call from Eli Chambers. I don't know how I feel about dad speaking to Eli but I know that my dad is not the same man he used to be.

Knowing mom and how worried she gets when we're not home as planned, she won't be happy if we get home later than the time we planned to arrive.

The people in front of me on the line are as worried as I am at the site of the frustrated customers getting their new plane tickets. They are all complaining about the changes implemented by the airline company. Some are told that they are not on the flight they had booked. Others are being moved from one gate or airline to another and others from one flight time to another. Dad comes back on the line.

An hour later, we finally reach the checkpoint to get our boarding passes.

"Hello!" the hostess smiles.

"Busy, huh. I promise not to be a pain. As you can see I'm smiling." Dad says trying to lighten the mood of the frustrated hostess. She has been dealing with unhappy customers and busy flight schedules. I'm actually amazed that she has kept her smile going till now. It takes training and a good heart not to flip out on some of these nasty costumers. I glance at the line behind me and can't be happier to be so close to getting on the plane and arrive home. But one look at the security line and the smile is erased by the view of the time-consuming line awaiting us.

"Lod, you want the first class seat?" Dad snaps me back to the check point.

"I have to choose! I thought we both got first class tickets?" I ask as he gives me the first class ticket. I take a look at Dad's ticket and he has an economy ticket. I can't believe he agreed to take different seating.

"If we don't take this plane, we can only make it home the day after your mother is expecting us to arrive." Dad explains.

I nod and smile even though I can feel my chest getting heavy. South Africa is very busy this time of the year; it is probably difficult to keep track of those coming in and especially those leaving after the World Cup.

"Sorry again for the inconvenience, have a great trip home" she smiles at us.

"Thank You." I say. Next is the long line to security and the start of a sixteen hours flight.

The plane took off about eight hours ago. I slept for the first four hours of the flight. And I have been silent for the other four hours. Shocking truth. I usually never stay quiet during trips. It is really a flight of firsts. This is not my first time flying first class. But it is definitely my first time flying first class without dad and without uttering a word. I am usually an outgoing person, open to meeting new people, making new experiences. I have never had difficulties meeting people. But starting a conversation with the girl on the seat next to mine has been difficult so far. She doesn't seem to want to start a conversation with me. I have barely seen her face since I got on the plane; she has buried t in a drawing book.

With my little knowledge of the language's grammar, I presume that her book is in French. I'm not 100% certain, but my few travels to France and my C in French class are enough for me to recognize the word 'facile', which means easy in French.

In French class, I was that kid who would use my charm to get the French teacher to give us easy exams. 'Madame, nous méritons un examen facile' I used to protest to her in my very strong American accent. It took me forever to learn how to properly say that sentence. Convincing the teacher to give us easy tests was even harder.

The seatbelt sign turns on and the captain addresses the passengers. He lets us know that we are arriving at our first stop in Dakar, Senegal and that the plane will be landing anytime soon.

About half an hour later, the plane lands and we are asked to remain in the plane for the next hour. Then we will continue our flight to D.C. While we wait, I get into a more comfortable position in hopes of starting a conversation with the girl. But as soon as I open my mouth to utter my first word, she closes shut her book, looks down the aisle. She then stands, leaves her book on the seat. I barely get a look at her face, when she walks the other way.

"Great" I say disappointed. When she enters the restroom, I turn to my window. I look out thinking of a better approach for conversation when the opportunity presents itself.

"Lod. Enjoying the view?" I hear a voice from behind.

I turn around, smile, there is Dad standing smiling back at me.

"It would be even more awesome if I was sharing it with my Dad" I respond desperately looking for a way to make him stay. But I know I can't because the girl beside me will come back soon.

"You can sit." I tell him nonetheless.

Dad points at the chair with the book on it. I shake my head. I don't have much to tell him about her since I haven't spoken to her.

"She headed to the bathroom. You can sit for a little."

"A girl, huh." he jokes. "Great neighbor, yeah. How' is your trip going?"

"Quiet, very quiet. I have barely uttered a word, even to myself" I joke. Dad gives out a quirky laugh. He opens the girl's drawing book.

"French? No wonder you haven't been able to utter a word," Dad says surprised.

"You know, you don't have to be fluent in French to speak to a woman, even though it's definitely a plus. Speaking from experience of course" Dad points out. He has always been a ladies' man, especially because of soccer. But when he met mom, he lost all interest in impressing other women. During his crazy years, he cheated on mom with a few French girls and was able to pick up some of the language. French gave him more of an edge when picking up girls. I'm so glad he left those years behind. But he could have at least kept the little French he had learned; it could have been useful to me in the present time.

"If only you had kept your French, I would get enough words to start a conversation" I say. "You don't really need the language you know. What tells you she doesn't speak English?! And also just be you." he encourages me. He always seems to know the right things to say to me.

Spending this month with Dad has reminded me of the great time I used to have with him. Although we're unable to spend our flight back together, chatting about our great time in South Africa; I am glad to be sharing this time of my life with him.

I have been making small talks with Dad for the past twenty minutes. I did not realize that the girl has been in the toilet for quite some time. It might be the food troubling her stomach. That sucks for her but as long as I get to chat with dad, she can really take her time, no rush.

Dad and I start having a serious conversation. I bring up my desire to play for Barcelona in the future. At first I think he'll discourage me from entering that circle because he doesn't want me to repeat his mistakes. But he tells me of how supportive he is of my dreams.

"I believe in you and I want you to be your own man," dad tells me. "But I also do realize that at some point the past can resurface and try to haunt you, to turn you into the man I used to be."

"I trust that you will not be that man. I want you to be strong, determined, focused, poised, unshakable, and most of all, to always love the people in your life more than you love the game." he expresses with so much conviction. "Family comes first and the game second. They were important before the game, they have to be important during the game and will be important when you're too old to play the game."

Everything he is saying resonates inside my head as I realize even more how much he really cares about me.

"Speaking from experience of course" he adds.

"Thanks dad. I needed to have that talk."

I look up and there she is standing by her seat, quietly waiting for dad to stand. She doesn't utter a word and waits quietly with her face looking back on the direction of the bathroom.

"Oh sorry," I say. Dad sees her, stands and smiles. She smiles back, quietly sits and Dad gives her the drawing book.

"I'm glad we talked Lod," dad smiles. "I love you son." Most boys would be super embarrassed at having their father say 'I love you' when the girl they're trying to talk to or impress is sitting right there. But I can't help but feel loved not the least embarrassed.

"Love you dad" I respond with the biggest smile on my face.

The girl sits and we're asked to get ready for takeoff. I can't stay quiet for eight more hours. I am determined to chat with her, but when I turn to face her, her eyes are closed. She's falling asleep with her head facing my way.

Finally seeing her face feels like an honor. She is cute. She has silky dark brown skin. In her teens. Maybe my age or a year older. She looks very well put together, simply clothed but very beautiful overall. I'm not an expert on body weight or anything that has to do with the anatomy of the human body, but she seems to be a little underweight. She seems bonier than most girls her age that I know. Maybe she is a model who has tried a little bit too hard to be perfect and missed the quote on quote mark for perfection.

The front part of her hair is braided in cornrows with a colorful hair band tied where the cornrows end and the afro starts. No makeup. She looks completely natural. She has an intriguing scar near her left eye. It runs from the corner of her eye sideways to her ear. It is small but its design is pretty hard to miss. I can maybe use that to start up a conversation. Or maybe not, it might be connected to something she doesn't feel comfortable talking about.

I can't believe I'm trying to unveil truths about this girl by making assumptions when I can just ask her. She is deeply asleep now, but when she wakes up, I hope we'll get to chat a little. We have about eight more hours of flight and we'll be in D.C. Let me take a nap and when I'll wake, we'll both be rested enough and we can chat for the rest of the flight. I close my eyes and start thinking of my conversation with dad.

Six hours later, someone firmly grabs my hand. I open my eyes and find the girl beside me intensely gripping my hand. Her eyes are closed shut. She seems frightened. It takes me a second to realize that the plane is shaking quite a bit. There is a very heavy thunderstorm and very strong winds. She is scared and doesn't let go of my hand. I use my freehand to fasten my seat belt. I gently loosen my hand from her grip and hold her hand in both of my hands.

"Everything is going to be fine" I say reassuring her.

"Don't be afraid." She opens her eyes and looks at me. For the first time I get to see her beautiful brown eyes. They're glowing with fear. A thunder strikes again, the plane shakes and start losing altitude. She closes her eyes and buries her face in my left shoulder.

The pilot addresses the passengers and tells us that there is a strong thunderstorm and very strong winds in the D.C. area. He asks everyone to keep seatbelts on until he says otherwise. I keep holding her hands for the next half hour while the pilot gets the plane farther from the thunderstorm and windy area.

About an hour later, the pilot addresses the passengers again. He lets us know that the plane is about to land in Harrisburg International Airport because the weather situation in D.C. does not permit any takeoff or landing. The news makes me happy that we're safe. But I am concerned that Dad and I might not get home on time.

Forty-five minutes pass, the pilot announces the landing. As we get out of the plane, we are each given bus tickets with seat numbers on them. The crew tells us that because there are so many air traffic delays, we can take the bus that will be bringing those who need to be in D.C. today. The ticket gives the passengers free access to the buses. No extra pay. That is good news. No overnight stay in Pennsylvania. Dad joins me at the terminal and we decide to take the bus so that we can make it home today.

We get our suitcases. Forty-five minutes later, we head to the bus. I show my ticket and get in the bus. I look up to see my number and when I spot it, I look at the seat and there she is. My flight neighbor, her face once again buried in her French drawing book. She is sitting by the window. We're sat buddies again.

I sit and make myself comfortable.

"What a day, huh" I say as the bus start moving.

She puts her book down and leaves it open on her lap. She looks at me, turns away and then smiles.

"I can't wait to be home. And see my mom and my sisters." She doesn't react to any of my attempts to make conversation. She just smiles and stares at her drawing. I hope she does realize that it is getting darker out and that sooner or later; she is going to have to stop staring at her book and chat with me.

"Oh man, it's starting to rain even more than before." I comment about the raind.

"When I was little I always wondered how the clouds cried so much. I would ask my parents why the clouds were always sad." I start telling her a story.

"One sunny day, my mom told me that during the day, it rains because the sun is taking a bath. And one night, my dad told me that during the night, it rains because the moon is taking a bath."

She probably thinks I am some infantile creep. I don't blame her; I wouldn't want my child to speak to a stranger either. I wonder if she is traveling alone. She might be. Then she must be seventeen to be traveling alone all the way from Africa.

"I actually believed my parents. It's funny how when we're little, we really believe what our parents tell us." I say.

I laugh and this time she laughs with me. But out of the blue, her laugh is turned to fear. I then realize that the huge bus is hydroplaning. She grabs my hand as we try to stay glued to our seats.

"Hold on" the bus driver shouts.

The bus does a first turn, then a second one. The bus starts hydroplaning even faster. It hits a few cars on the right and then hits a truck on the left before flipping over and sending the girl and me out the window.

When I open my eyes, I'm lost, unable to figure out what is happening. While on the ground, I can feel my aching body and the pouring rain washing the blood dripping down my face into my eyes. In a distance, I see what seems to be the left-over burning carcass of a bus.

I hear sirens. "Look for survivors." someone shouts.

Am I a survivor, I think to myself? I can't move, I can't feel my body and I can barely see anything through my eyes.

Someone shouts that someone is breathing, someone is alive. The first person that comes to mind is dad. Dad is alive. And I'm alive as well. I am alive. How will they know that I am also alive? Unable to do anything else but wait, I lay there motionless; eyes open, praying that they find me too. Hopefully alive.

"He's alive." someone shouts and runs to me.

"Stay with me. You've been in vehicle accident, please stay with me" he says touching my face trying to keep me from fading away. But I can't help but close my eyes. He reaches to get a pulse from my neck as my strength dissipates and my consciousness fades away.

"Wow. I was not expecting that." Dieudonné comments. I smile and place another puzzle piece in the right spot.

July 2010

My eyes are blurred by something white. Small sponge like particles. I don't have the strength to take them off. And every time I blink, these white particles move to the corners of my eyes. Light shines through my blurred vision as I see a lady open the curtains of a small window. She picks me up from a soft sheet crib and takes me in her arms. She wipes my face with wet warm cloth and starts singing as she places me in a bucket of warm water. With her soft hands she runs water through my face, my baby hands and feet. I smile as her hands tickle my belly and her beautiful singing voice soothes me. She is singing in a language I do not recognize, but it's as southing as if each word was in my native tongue.

She smiles at me, tickles my nose and softly runs her hand through my small curled baby hair.

She takes me into her arms again, wraps me with her clothes, a long colorful wrapping. "I love you" she says kissing my forehead.

I hear her say it in another language, but for some reason I understand, in English. Everything she says is directly translated in my head. Like when watching a documentary from a foreign country. The actual interviewee speaks the foreign language in the background while the translator speaks English over the interviewee's voice. But even better, I don't hear a voice translating in English. I just hear the other language and completely understand it in English.

I would love to make more sense of the language situation but this language is the least of my worries. My main concern is how I got here, in a baby's body, in some unknown place, in the arms of a stranger.

The woman dresses me up in a brand new colorful outfit that she unwrapped from a golden package. When I'm dressed and ready, she passes me into the arms of a man. A tall and strong man who takes me outside where the sun is brightly shining and the air is a little misty.

Our presence ignites a celebration. There are about a hundred people outside. Some start playing drums and others start dancing in a circle. The man places me in the arms of another woman. A lot older than the first woman I saw. She has a crown on her head as well. But her crown is bigger than the one of the man. Beautiful colorful ornaments flow from the top of her head down to her forehead. Her ornaments have different triangular and circular shapes. She looks very beautiful in her natural black afro hair and her dark brown silky skin. Her brown eyes glow in the sun and her smile makes her whole face radiate with beauty. I look at her eyes in hopes of understanding where I am and why I am where I am, but all her eyes tell me is that it is a happy day and she is happy.

Turning my head to face the crowd dancing for joy confirms that she is not the only happy person. Colorful clothes are wrapped around the heads of the women and girls and they have on dresses with red and black colors. Men and boys are in red and black pants with colorfully patterned shirts and on their heads are colorful small crowns.

They are all dancing and radiating huge smiles from their faces. Uniform in their dancing, they make amazing footwork, they use their hands to make loud claps, and they also use their mouths to sing songs in harmonious tunes. The singing is loud and the sounds seems to carry far away. They raise their voices to sing louder to the beat of the distinct sounds made by the drums and the many instruments of different shapes. I don't understand what they're saying or why they're doing what they're doing but it is quite enjoyable.

All of a sudden, they all make two rows. The woman holding me stands and starts walking and dancing simultaneously. On each side, she is escorted by a row of men and women.

She heads to a big open tent where more people, wearing the same ornaments as her, seat, clapping and singing along with the rest of the crowd. There are about thirty or more people sitting under the tent. One of them, an old man wearing the biggest crown, is sitting on a decorated wooden chair at the center of the crowd. There are bigger circular and triangular ornaments falling from his crown to his forehead. He is dressed like all the other men but the crown makes him stand out as the leader.

Surrounding him are men and women who have smaller crowns and different shaped ornaments dangling over their foreheads. There are also children in the group, girls dressed like the women in the group and boys wearing the same pattern clothes as the older men. The children are also wearing small crowns with triangular and circular ornaments flowing down their foreheads. On the right of the leader is another decorated wooden chair. But it is empty. On his left, sits the man who took me outside. On the right of the empty chair is sitting the woman who bathed and dressed me. She's now all dressed up with the crown on her head.

The older woman, holding me, positions herself in front of the old man; she bows and holds me out to him. Music and dancing cease as the old man stands and takes a few steps toward us. Everything becomes silent, not even a bird is chirping. A man in the tent walks to the old man's side, holding a golden cloth. He opens it to let show a brand new small crown with circular and triangular ornaments.

"Let us all celebrate, my people let us celebrate," the old man shouts.

"Let us celebrate the coming of a new member of our community. A new member in my son and daughter's family. A new royal blood." He picks up the small crown from the cloth and lifts it for all to see.

"We bless you daughter. And welcome you as a gift of life from God to our community. May you grow in strength, intelligence, determination and love!" he adds before he takes me in his arms and places the crown on my head. As soon as he is done placing the crown on my head, a loud noise, of what seems to be a scream, comes from a woman in the crowd. Following her long scream, all the other women join her in doing the same thing. Drums pick up in rhythmic bam-bam and music starts again and dancing follows. The king walks to the woman who bathed me about two hours ago.

"Your daughter, Maisha." he tells her as she takes me into her arms and kisses my head.

The party goes on all day long. Food is served in abundance. An immense variety of meat, vegetables, fruits and dishes I have never seen, eaten or heard of before.

Drama and storytelling follow the eating. Ancestral stories of great conquests and years of prosperity and the great people that made everything happen. As I watch the audience, some know the stories word from word. Others can't wait for the next word to reveal another great mystery. Children find the closest seating space at the front for a better view of the actors, the teller and the different props used to enhance the beauty of each story.

After five stories, music and dancing bring everyone back to their feet, singing more celebration tunes. At that point I am too stuffed and tired to continue to watch the dancing and care for more singing. I zone out into my presumed mother's arms, looking up at her smiling face and her gentle touch as she gently rocks me to sleep.

"I dreamed for the first time in a very long time and my mind couldn't forget what I had seen in the dream," I tell Dieudonné. "I couldn't explain it. It was odd, surreal but a dream nonetheless."

"Too bright" are the two words that come out of my mouth as I try to make sense of where I am this time. Bright white lights, not like the sun I previously saw. There wasn't any light bulb where I was a moment ago. Only the sun, a few oil torches. And the sun to brighten the day and the moon the night. But these lights are very bright, from every corner of wherever I am.

I can't be in heaven. What is happening?! I open my eyes a bit wider and all I can see is very bright light.

"Too bright" I say a little louder to get someone's attention. Anyone who can help me understand what is going on.

"Lod" a voice calls out. Then I feel the tight grip on my left hand. I look to my left and despite the blinding light, I see someone place a kiss on my forehead. I recognize the gentle touch.

"Mom" I say as I smell the distinct perfume on her clothes and see her smiling face fixed on me.

"The lights are too bright, mom" I tell her. I close my eyes. As mom tries to walk away to fix the light, I tighten my grip to keep her from moving.

"Don't leave me" I say desperately.

"I'm right here, baby, I'm not going anywhere," she says as I open my eyes again.

"Help, someone," she shouts to the nurse in the hallway.

When the nurse lowers the brightness of the light, I see my crying mother still holding my left arm and kissing it. The nurse walks to the other side of the bed and checks my pulse and every other machine connected to my body.

"You were in a coma for the past week," mom says. I can tell that she's also listening to what the nurse is saying about how I'm doing. I rely on mom's words to make sense of what has happened since I can't hear the nurse standing on my right. Speaking in my right ear, my bad ear.

"The nurse is saying that you are doing much better. You'll be fine, you need more rest." mom says gently rubbing my forehead.

It is reassuring that I'll be fine but I can't seem to understand why my body contradicts what the nurse is saying. I feel completely fine, stronger than ever before. I feel like walking off this bed, running and playing soccer. Playing soccer; the thought invades my senses. Everything begins to make sense. Soccer. The World Cup. South Africa. Dad.

"Dad?" I ask out loud as my words solve the riddle jumbled in my head. Mom's eyes start watering as soon as I mention dad.

"Your father....my husband" she says and breaks down, crying.

"What happened?" I ask confused.

"I'm sorry Lod," Uncle Mike says. I turn to the door and see him next to his wife Defie. Aunty Defie starts crying. Mom walks to her and they hug each other. I sit up to make sense of everything. The nurse leaves the room.

It hits me, the memory of the bus. The burning bus. I survived, someone else survived, but it was not dad. My eyes get filled with tears. Uncle Mike sits on my bed and hugs me.

No, not my dad, I whisper to myself.

"No!" I scream as I hit Uncle Mike on the chest.

"Que ce que je donnerai pour avoir ma famille de nouveau," Dieudonné says in a wishful tone. "Some months after losing them, I began to give God a few of my reasons why I should have my family back; reasons for God to change the past. I felt like Abraham bargaining with God over an unalterable past. I had reason why each member of my family should have survived."

"Like what reasons?" I asked intrigued.

"I told God that my parents served him and that was enough to save them." he explains.

"After the missionaries preached in your village, and won everyone to Christ; they chose your parents to lead the small church. One day your father came back from the city after becoming a Christian and led your whole family to Christ."

"I told God that he should change the past and save my parents because they served him. After missionaries preached in our village and because my entire family lived right and loved people; we should have all survived so we could continue to do the same. Especially now that the moment desperately asked for loving and caring people like my family and I. My older brother Jeff,

I feel weak and extremely vulnerable as if my only strength, dad, drains out of me. Forever. It is such a bad feeling.

How am I supposed to live without him?!Losing him after such a memorable time is unfathomable.

"This first dream, as inexplicable as it might have been, was a sign of change. Adding to it, dad's inexplicable death definitely showed that my life would never be the same." I tell Dieudonné as I try not to cry.

"You know, I actually thought that my father would live forever. He had made that kind of impact on me," I say. "I always looked forward to seeing him at my college and Barcelona games, cheering like the soccer fanatic he was. I always imagined him at my wedding with the biggest smile on his face and the coolest moves on the dance floor."

Dieudonné smiles as I pass him another puzzle price that he places another puzzle piece at the right spot.

"He was a great dancer," I joke. "And plus he was talented in changing diapers. I always hoped that he would be there to help me with that. He was really that kind of man. Strong, determined, loving, multitalented, overachieving and sometimes awkwardly funny"

"It must have been hard losing him." Dieudonné expresses.

"It was hard to live knowing that my father wouldn't be around to experience all those things with me. But for some reason I was doing fine with the changes that were taking place in my life." I say.

"What happened next?" Dieudonné asks.

July 2010

I always thought that the day my house would have this many of Dad's friends and loved ones, would be at my father's fiftieth birthday party. I never thought it would be for his funeral before the age of fifty.

Every room in the first floor of the house is full of people. They're all dressed in black and no one really seems to even crack a smile. They only smile when their eyes meet mine as if that is supposed to make me feel better. Their smiles are just reminders of the unlucky rest of my life, without Dad. Without his smiles to enjoy on a daily basis. All this makes me want to run up to my room and not come down till everyone leaves, but mom needs me down here to keep an eye on the girls.

Leola and Lila are taking all of this better than I am. Maybe because they're too little to really understand what it means to lose a father in such a tragic way and to have to live without him for the rest of their lives.

After I got home from the hospital, the girls and I went in the parents' bedroom and sat on their bed. I held them in my arms as they slept. If only I had given Dad my seat, he would be here and you girls wouldn't have to grow up without a father, I whispered to myself as painful memories of a fatherless childhood invaded my thoughts. It is really disheartening to grow up without a father. It is even more painful when the father is there but not living out his fatherly responsibilities. Now that I look back at my life without him, I realize how hard it was not having him around to be the father figure I needed. As I look forward and realize that my life will be without him, I am mostly afraid of not having enough good things to remember about him and of only having memories that will haunt me forever.

From across the living room, mom signals me to walk to her. I walk with my head down trying to get my thoughts out of the hurtful past into the present needs of my family.

"Yes, mom" I say as I sit and put my left arm around her. Standing in front of her is a man who seems familiar.

"Sweetheart, this is your dad's book publicist and longtime friend. You do remember, Jess Reign, right?" she introduces him.

"He was telling me that he would like to talk with you about one of your dad's last request...a book about South Africa." she says in an encouraging tone.

Jess went to school with dad. They were both Creative Writing majors in college. They were friends but not as close friends as after dad reconnected with him when looking for a publicist for his first biography. Jess was genuinely inspired by my dad's story and became not only the publicist but a family friend.

"Your father charged him to help you. Talk to him, please," she says as she takes my hand. "It would be good if you could think about it."

"Your dad was very excited about your world cup trip," Jess says. "We talked extensively about it and planned it together. He was even planning on writing a book about it. He was really looking forward to your input in the book. He was a big believer that one day you would write books just like him," he smiles.

"I know it must be difficult to talk about anything at the present time. But I would love to make his wish come true. Of course whenever you're ready." Jess adds without letting me answer.

If it wasn't Jess asking such a favor, on such a day, I would have probably lost my mind and would have accused him of being a gold digger. But Dad has always spoken positively of him and I know him well enough to recognize his devotion to dad. He was genuinely and unselfishly both dad's closest friend and publicist.

"I would love to help you accomplish this for my father, but I'm not ready at the moment. I will think about it and when I'm ready, you will surely hear from me," I say.

All of a sudden, these talks, looks and sad moods in this house, are making me uncomfortable. "Excuse me" I say as I stand, in a hurry to walk away and put this conversation behind me.

"Thank you, Lod. Your father is proud and he will always be proud." Jess encourages me.

"Thank you" I say as I make my way outside. I take a deep breath in as if taking my first breath in ages. I spot Leola and Lila playing soccer on the lawn.

"Can I join?" I ask with the biggest smile on my face attempting to hide how much I might start tearing up.

"Of course you can, Lod," Lila says.

"It will make you happy" Leola says as she passes me the ball.

We pass back and forth. The guests start getting out of the house to watch us play. I finally get to see some genuine happy smiles and laughs as my sisters and I kick the ball around and make some funny misses and hilarious saves. My dad's old teammates from college and from his professional career, some of my cousins, and Zaine join us in a ball passing circle. We pass the ball. Each person at his or her turn, takes the ball, does a little soccer trick and passes it. I show off my best skills, all of the ones dad taught me. I get applause from everyone and 'oh nice' from those who recognize some of dad's signature moves.

At the end of a half hour play, people start heading back in the house and some start leaving. The girls, mom and I stand at the door to thank those leaving. Leola and Lila don't stay long at the door; they get back to playing with their cousins and friends. The soccer match definitely gave them way more energy; they might be difficult to put to bed tonight if that energy doesn't expire soon.

The soccer show down was a great touch to the whole event. It made the rest of this day less sorrowful and especially less awkward. People are leaving with genuine smiles on their faces as if they just witnessed Dad out there playing with his children. As if they witnessed another round of greatness from the great man Dad was and forever will be. A sight, mom had become too familiar with as she always watched us play and acted like the referee. She would score us according to our performance and would always tell the girls and me that we were the best and she would repeat 'you are great' to my father at least five times and kiss him after each game.

Those are the memories I cherish the most. I would love to spend my time thinking about those memories and my nights dreaming them. Since I'm sure to never re-live them now that dad is gone.

"Thank you," I say to Aunty Bridgette, Aunty Sally, and Uncle Tom who are leaving with my sleepy cousins in their arms.

All the thank you and thank you very much have left my mouth a little dehydrated. And that's without counting the fatigue of the soccer show down.

"I think you guys are ready for bed" Grandma Glo says as she closes the door behind mom. Grandma Glo's real name is Gloria, she's mom's stepmother. Mom lost her mother at birth and when her father remarried, Grandma Gloria loved mom like her own before making mom the happiest big sister of two boys and three girls.

"That includes you too, Veera." Grandma Ria says as she puts her arm around mom.

Grandma Ria's real name is Gloria, she's dad's mother. Both grandmas in the family have the name Gloria. At first it was hard finding a way to call them separately when in the same room. Then when I was four years old, I decided to call mom's mother Glo and dad's mother Ria. When I was asked why, I told them that they both deserved their names and that I could split the name so each of them would get three letters and still sound cool. Since then, those have become their names.

Both grandmothers have been very close to mom for the past twelve years, especially during the seven years of my father's absence. For both of them this is another tragedy that breaks their hearts and requires them to be there for mom, even more than before.

"Don't worry about cleaning up, you have to rest, we'll take care of everything, "Christian says as he kisses mom on the cheek and picks up the plates of food in the living room. Cindy walks to her sister, kisses her on the cheek.

"We got you guys," she says. Cindy and Cristian, mom's twin baby siblings, head to the kitchen to clean up. I see Uncle Mike and Aunty Defie come down the stairs.

"They're all asleep. All six of them" Uncle Mike sighs.

"You did it" mom says giving a laughing sigh of relief. I can't help but give the same sigh of relief knowing that all those six children are off their exciting adrenaline and in bed.

"You both need to rest" Uncle Mike says as he hugs us both.

"Let's do a group hug," he adds laughing. Grandma Ria and Glo and their husbands join in the hug.

"Cristian, there's a group hug happening, want to join?" Cindy screams. Cristian storms out of the kitchen to join the group hug. The awesome thing about our family group hug is that it is not the first time. We have had group hugs before because we are just that kind of family. Or maybe because Uncle Mike is always the instigator of our group hugs. In one of our private sessions he told me that families that are willing to simply touch each other, are more likely to be in peace than families that do not consider touch as vital part of family cohesion. I don't know how he got that or how accurate he is about that; but then again, Aunty Defie and him are the psychologists and counselors in the family, they would know more about families and people.

We stay locked in each other's' arms, silent for the next forty seconds. During the hug, I try to think of a few bad things Dad ever did to us. I want any reason to be angry at him for leaving us. But all I can think of is how much this family is going to miss having him in these hugs. It is as if those bad memories have been erased from my head. They are being replaced by the presence of the wonderful family taking me in its arms.

I thought that the house was back to being empty, missing one important piece, but I realize that the rest of the family is here, making sure that we know that even though one of us might be missing, we are still standing strong together.

"It was such a blessing to have the same people who helped my father come home, be there for me when he passed away. They were instrumental in helping me cope with the void my father's death had left in my life." I say.

"It is always good to have people like that in life. They remind you that death is not the end of everything." Dieudonné explains me.

"Yes indeed, it's not." I agree.

August, 2010

There is no other feeling that equates having family members lend a helping hand, especially in times when life seems to be at its worst. Aunts, uncles and grandparents. Their presence has been crucial in helping me deal with the current life shifting. They stayed, cooked, cleaned, and have been making sure that the girls, mom and I are doing well. They are all leaving after a week of taking care of us.

Uncle Mike, his wife and their children are staying for another two days, probably mom's idea. In her head she is probably thinking that because of my history with dad and the past nightmares, I need closer attention. I don't blame her for caring.

Having Uncle Mike around is a reminder of the father figure he was to me when Dad was nothing but trouble. Now that dad is gone forever, mom feels even more of an urgency to put me back under the guidance of my uncle. She believes that since Uncle Mike helped me back then, he can help now.

Mom and Dad separated when I was six. After the separation, mom did not keep me from seeing dad during the weekends and special holidays or events for which dad wanted me around. Despite dad's reckless and senseless behaviors, mom let me go with him mostly because she still loved him. Even though she hated his lifestyle, she wanted me to have a father.

As dad got worse over the years, Uncle Mike advised her not to send me to his brother, but despite the warning from Uncle Mike and dad's crazy mishaps, she still wanted me to have a father.

After losing me in the middle of London, mom chose to forgive dad and still allow him to visit and take me out for father-son time. She restricted me from sleeping over at his place or going abroad. The more I hung out around dad and his friends, the more they smoked, and lived recklessly. It wasn't hard for me to start enjoying their lifestyle and become rebellious towards mom. I partied more, started drinking at ten years old without mom knowing. I smoked and sniffed a few things here and there, started to lose my mind and enjoy more and more of my dad's bad lifestyle.

"My father greatly regretted letting me into his world and expecting me to turn out just like him. Because he later realized that our 'like father, like son' relationship opened me to a world a child should never be exposed to." I comment.

"Through our own experience, he has taught me that being a father is a great responsibility that should never be shared with a troublesome lifestyle. He taught me to be a good man first, before thinking of being a father. And then when I am a father to be a good father." I add.

"Well you are a good father" Dieudonné tells me. I look at Miradel as she places the puzzle pieces. I smile and place a puzzle piece at the right spot.

Things started changing the day dad, our friends and I got jumped by someone dad owed money to. I was a little intoxicated that day. I talked too much and cursed at the robber without thinking. Well that night, whatever I had taken made me very talkative to the point that one of the robbers got fed up and hit me on the back of the head with his gun. One blow to the head and he shut me up. I fell and lost consciousness on the spot. The next thing I remembered was lying on my dad's bed with the biggest headache in the world.

From then on my nights were invaded by nightmares. I would fall asleep and have nightmares of the reckless times with dad and even of times I wasn't there to witness my dad's craziness. Nightmares like getting lost in London and being kidnapped and eaten alive by cannibals. I would dream of dad being so high and disheveled that he would walk in zigzags and fall chest first into a long broken glass and die on the spot. Other nightmares would be about drinking myself to death. Most of my nightmares ended with the tragic death of either Dad, a friend of ours, a friend of mine or my own death. Everything I would see in my nightmares would be perfect replicas of reality and premonitions of crazy things I didn't remember being there for and things I would maybe experience later on. The way they always ended were exactly what I dreaded reality to become.

For about a month, I couldn't close my eyes without having nightmares that scared me to death. Then it became a year of sleepless nights.

So I decided to see dad a little less than usual, something that surprised mom. She tried to get me to explain why I was distancing myself but I couldn't tell her of my crazy behaviors and put dad in trouble. I didn't want to break her heart, so I told her that I wanted to focus on soccer, even though I was doing it to see if things would change. Weeks, months passed. No change occurred. Insanity and complete unresponsiveness to the world around me kicked in as I became distant from the people I loved. Mom started realizing that I was losing my mind. She interpreted my distancing as a result for not spending enough time with both her and dad.

So at one of my very important soccer games, the semifinal game for the state championship, mom invited dad and trusted him to bring me home after the game. Mom left half way into the game because she had to meet with her models for fitting before the fashion show of her new collection. Dad came sober before she left and drank for the rest of my game after mom left. At the end of the game, we won and dad wanted to take me out and celebrate. He was drunk but insisted to drive to go celebrate my great victory. None of the parents who saw him drunk cared enough to step in and stop him from taking me in his car. About ten miles from the soccer field, he burns a red light and a truck runs straight into us from the passenger side where I was sitting. The next thing I remember of that day was lying on a hospital bed, unable to hear from my right ear. Also an injured leg, which made me unfit to play when the championship game came around. But my team managed to win without their best player, at least winning the state championship brought me some joy despite the crazy things I had gone through.

After the accident, mom became the angriest woman I have ever met. She did not trust anyone, mostly men. She took care of me on her own. Spending every waking and sleeping moment with me was her way of coping with the idea of almost losing the only person she loved in the world. Uncle Mike made sure that his brother paid for hurting me and stepped in even though my mom did really not want any men around.

Mom was right in letting Uncle Mike into my life at such a crucial time. And she really had no choice but to let him. He had been right from the beginning about not letting dad near me. Uncle Mike stepped in and visited every two days, which was a huge sacrifice since he lives in northern Virginia and we live in central North Carolina. Each of his visits was to make sure of my wellbeing as I was in physical therapy and I was trying to work out some kind of surgery for my ear. One day, on a Sunday, he came to visit at mom's request, and he took one look at me and smiled.

They had talked about helping me recover not only physically but psychologically as well and had decided not to send me to a psychiatrist. They both determined that letting me talk to Uncle Mike about my nightmares would help me heal psychologically. Even though I was desperate to talk to someone about my nightmares, I wasn't sure what segue to use in talking to Uncle Mike about the crazy things I did with his younger brother. I didn't want to talk to mom either, because it would cause her more pain and put dad in more trouble.

After a long lunch and dinner talk about it, he convinced me to confide in him. Talking to Uncle Mike was the best and only option I accepted. He promised not to care for me as one of his patients but as family. And I made him promise that everything I would tell him, he wouldn't use to cause more trouble for dad.

I saw him four times a month and during the summer I would spend half of it at his house in Virginia and the other half with the whole family in Georgia, where Dad and Mom's parents live. The grandparents introduced me to the church they attended, something Dad never made time for us to be part of. And I started making new friends in Virginia and Georgia. Life started changing for the better. Zaine and I became close friends. I was doing better in school, I was spending time with good people and I kept myself busy with productive activities like soccer.

As I was getting my life back together, Dad had his share of changes happen as well. He became a Christian when doing his community service to cover his DUI charges. And he went to rehab at his parents' house. His change was so radical that it softened mom's hardened heart. They fell back in love and decided never to fall out of it.

In my case, I was a little unhappy that Dad was back after Uncle Mike took care of me as his own son, something Dad never cared to do because he was too busy introducing me to his crazy world of substance abuse and meaningless activities. Forgiving him and welcoming him back with open arms was impossible since all I wanted was to be as far from him as possible. Even though my nightmares had diminished, every time I had them, I blamed him for scarring me for life.

Staying mad at Dad for the rest of my life was not an option since he had really changed. Uncle Mike made me understand that at some point I would have to forgive him and give him the chance to shape my life in a positive way. And he helped us both get back to being father and son.

He was there then and is now here for me. Today he is visiting, he texted me during the week saying he wanted to talk. Mom must have contacted him because she thinks I'm having nightmares again.

Before South Africa, I had ten to fifteen nightmares a month and I would usually wake up, walk down stairs, shake it off and go back to bed. Mom would sometimes find me downstairs and ask me if I'm okay and I would reassure her that it's nothing. And life would be back to normal. Since the crash, I haven't had a nightmare. Not one, the memories only resurface, during the day, as short films, when I think about the old days. But I have been waking up during the night, going downstairs, thinking about the dreams I've been having for the past weeks. The week after Uncle Mike and his family left, I had three dreams and Mom found me downstairs those three times. I tried convincing her that I'm not having nightmares and that I'm just trying to make sense of these minimally enjoyable dreams I'm having but without success. Because I am sure she called Uncle Mike to talk to me about what she believes are my reoccurring nightmares.

Uncle Mike arrives home, looks at me and smiles the same way he smiled the day he came to talk to me about my nightmares.

"We're going to be meeting from now on every Monday and Wednesday for two hour sessions every week," he says without cracking a smile. He sits quietly waiting for an answer but I don't say a word because all I can think of is how much I'm okay and I don't need his help. I wouldn't mind his help but I'm coping with the whole situation pretty well, it's just that mom is over thinking what's happening in my head.

"Your mom told me about your reccurring nightmares" he tells me.

"Uncle Mike, you know mom, she always worries. I'm not having nightmares. I haven't had nightmares in the past weeks. Not one," I say. His face shows how confused he is.

"So why are you showing the same signs?" he asks as a real psychologist who took notes of my every change.

"I've been dreaming, every day. Since I've come back, I've had dreams, not nightmares. The nightmares do resurface during the day, but they're short and I forget them by the night," I say.

"But why have you been having less and less sleep?" he asks.

"I've been sleeping more than ever before. But yes, I have been sleeping at little less during the night because this whole having dreams instead of nightmares is new to me. I'm getting used to it. It will probably get better as I get back to the normal kind of nights normal people have." I say.

"Um, you have a point, I'll talk to your mother, but if you do not see any changes or you want to talk about those dreams, I'm here for you," he says.

"Thank you Uncle Mike, I know I can talk to you anytime. About anything. No lies, no half-truths. For both our goods. I can always count on you," I say determined to convince him to drop the subject. I don't want to tell him the dreams, what I see and how much all I see doesn't make sense to me. I want for once in my life, to figure things out on my own and take measures to help myself. Family has always been there to support me but this time I want to find solutions without their direct help. I don't mind having their indirect helping hands now and then. I'm not running from a helping hand, I want to be my own helping hand for now.

"My father had always influenced my life. Both in good and bad. He introduced me to a crazy world that made me crazy. His brother stepped in to help me get back to the real world, the loving world that cared about my wellbeing and future."

"Having caring and loving people, wasn't that a good thing?" he asks me.

"Kind of. But as I went back into the real world, they didn't realize that I was coming with baggage that wouldn't let me move forward. Baggage that only dad could help me with."

"I can definitely relate. And I can even add that it's even worse when you come with baggage that you know that no one from your past or present life can help you with." Dieudonné tells me.

I look to the back door of the kitchen and see Ma' Sabine come in with food in a big grocery bag. "Just a little something for lunch." Sabine tells us.

She starts serving and gives us each a plate of fried plantains, beans, rice and chicken. Miradel leaves her room and joins us in the dining room.

"Thank you, ma' Sabine."Miradel smiles.

"Yes thank you very much" Dieudonné says.

"Indeed, thank you. It smells delicious." I compliment her. We continue working on the puzzle as we all eat.

"As I was saying, when my father came back in my life, after seven years, we understood each other and created our own world. A world that helped us be better in the world around us. His death left me alone, wandering in those two worlds I couldn't balance and on a journey I was still trying to grasp."

I eat a plantain. "But even though I felt alone and everyone wanted to help, for the first time, his parting made me determined to figure things out on my own and be better in my two worlds. And maybe one day harmonize those two worlds into becoming one." I state.

August, 2010

For some odd reason, I have had dad's Father-son South Africa World Cup book idea on my mind all morning. I'm sitting on the couch holding two different journals, the journal dad bought me for our South Africa trip and the journal I bought to write down all the unexplainable dreams I've been having. It is a miracle that my South Africa journal made it out of the bus the same time I was ejected. It was found next to me. And I have been reading and remembering each day of that trip, each day this month. I open it and start reading.

I read about the game between Brazil and Cote D'Ivoire. And I read of my first Skype double date with Zaine and two beautiful Brazilian girls I met after the game. I talked to Zaine about them and we decided that I would Skype him when I'm with the girls so that we can chat and get to know each other. I can't help but laugh at myself as I remember that day. I place my open journal on my chest and these interesting memories drift me off to sleep.

Sunny day. The sun came out about six hours ago and now it's brightly shining over the water. The sun's rays seem pretty hot but bearable. Being in the water in this weather must be super cooling. It is my first time at the lake. Little boys are playing in it, splashing each other and doing cool flips as they dive in.

A woman is holding my hand while holding in her other hand a big calabash made out of clay. She's the same woman that held me in her arms the day of the big celebration. Most people call her Wimbi.

"Wimbi, wait for me" shouts a woman running toward us. By her side is a little boy about my height and age.

We both turn and stand still till they get closer to us. "Hi Sabine, how are you? And you Dieudonné?" Wimbi asks. They join us in our walk as we make our way down the hill to the water. Dieudonné doesn't wait for any permission to take off his shirt and jump in the water. I want to do the same but Wimbi stops me with her hand on my chest before the idea fully shapes itself in my head. She puts down her calabash and sits by Sabine. I sit next to Wimbi but keep my focus on the happy children playing in the water.

"You can go near the water but you cannot enter the water, you hear me!" Wimbi says as she gently rubs my head.

I walk to the edge of the water and let my feet feel the cold water hitting the shore and I sit there. I look up and see the happy face of Dieudonné. Then I look down and start drawing on the sand. Without much effort I start drawing the smiling face of Dieudonné, then the smiling face of another boy. With the help of the muddy sand, I add details on those two sand drawings, which turns them into 3-D detailed faces.

An hour later, I draw about four of the six boys in the water with facial details and expressions resembling each boy. Wimbi comes to pick me up and both Sabine and her look at me amazed as soon as they see my sandy drawing.

"Beautiful talent in this miracle life," Sabine says. Wimbi takes me in her arms and smiles.

"My miracle child" she says with pride as she wipes the sand off my body. Sabine waves at the boys in the water to get their attention. They swim to the shore and at the sight of my masterpiece; they all congratulate me for an awesome work.

"Is that me?" asks Dieudonné impressed by the resemblance. "I look very happy. I like that."

Later that day after getting back to the village, I become the talk of the town. Maisha's sand drawing is all the little boys and girls talk about. When Wimbi tells her husband about the drawing, he takes me in his arms and dances with me. When he puts me down, Wimbi gives me a little bit of water and let me draw on the sand till sun down.

Another sunny day in the village; Fabrice, Wimbi's husband comes home with a gift wrapped in a golden cloth. A drawing book, sheets of papers and two pencils with two packs of lead.

"A gift from your dad and me," Wimbi says with a smile.

"For your drawing and also to prepare you for school as we prepare for your enrollment," Fabrice adds. I take the gift in my hands. I place paper on top of the book and start drawing. "We love you," Fabrice says. They both place kisses on my head and get out of the house. That whole day, I immerse myself in drawing and barely spend time doing anything else. I draw trees, the surrounding mountains, the many people of town, the musical instruments, the goats and chickens. That night, I keep on drawing with the lamp beside my bed. About an hour after starting my fifteenth drawing of the day, I fall asleep with my head on my drawing.

"Please do not tell me you slept here?" a voice shouts at me. I sit up on the couch with the journal glued to my face. I open my eyes and there a few feet away stands mom. At first I think I'm still dreaming. As I'm trying to make sense of where I am and what has happened, the journal unglues itself from my face and hits the ground

"Please, just tell me that you did not spend your night down here?" mom yanks me out of sleep as she reaches for my journal. Before her fingers even touch the journal, I snatch it from the ground. "Huh....I woke up about two hours ago. I was very excited about moving in today that...huh" I say. I barely have any idea how to get myself out of this one so I look down at the journal in my hand.

"I decided to come down and journal about my first day of college," I add hoping to get her off my case.

"Okay. But why were you sleeping instead of writing?" she asks unconvinced by my smart attempt to make her back off on the matter.

"I fell asleep. I'm not a writer like Dad; I easily get bored when writing. But I want to try to do it anyways," I say annoyed at her. At the sound of my response she backs off and changes the subject.

"Well, go get ready, sleepy head. Your uncle and I have to have you moved in and registered for classes, today," she says.

"Oh yeah! On my way to shower," I respond.

"Are you going to let me read those?" she asks with a smirk on her face.

I pick up the other journal and hold both of them in my hands. "Woo, no. Of course not, it's a surprise. I'm going to write my whole time in college, do a few crazy things and you'll get to read about them when I write a book. You know. Just trying to be like dad, always," I answer with a smile on my face.

Her silence hints me that she has nothing more to say. She opens the fridge and acts like we weren't having a conversation.

Nice save, I whisper to myself as I make my way up the stairs. I don't mind telling mom about my dreams but I would like to understand them first. If not mom will decide that seeing a psychologist is the answer when all I need is to live my life until all these dreams start making sense.

I might have lied to her about writing about my college experience but I didn't totally lie about having a journal and writing. I have been jotting down every detail of every dream I have had since I came home from the hospital. I didn't write the first and second dream I had at the hospital. I started with the third one because in the third dream people kept calling me "Maisha". I do have a name now in these dreams. But I need to know more about this person and this place I keep dreaming about. In today's dream, my eleventh dream so far, I learned that the person I'm dreaming about or the person, through whom I see all that I am dreaming about, is artistic. Hopefully by writing it all down I can start putting together the puzzle and figure out why I'm having them.

I carry with me my journal as I sometimes have dreams when I nap during the day. I often remember some details of previous dreams that I would like to include in the journal. There's no way I'm letting it fall in the wrong hands, especially mom and Uncle Mike. My journals are probably going to be the last things I move into my room, probably when mom and Uncle Mike leave and let me start this new chapter of my life.

"I can't believe I was in one of your dreams." Dieudonné says confused. "I'm still trying to understand why."

"You'll understand soon enough, but let's not jump." I tell him. "The story is best told one puzzle piece at a time." I tell him.

About three hours later, I am almost all moved in. Moving into college is such a different experience. My room gets filled with more and more of my things. I can't and don't want to believe that I'm actually going to spend the next four years on this campus, away from home, it is still surreal. Dad and I always knew this would happen one day. We always joked that he would break his back moving my soccer stuff in the room. We both thought we would witness it together.

I do miss him very much. Wishing that he were here is an understatement, having him here is my real desire. If he was here I would ask him on which wall I should put my giant Messy poster. He would probably laugh and ask why not put a poster of him instead. I might actually put up a poster of him instead of Messy. I want to be reminded of the great player dad was and of the great man he shaped me into.

As I lay on my new bed with dad's book on my chest, I want to always know that he's in a great place; proud of the man I've become and will be.

"Ready?" Uncle Mike asks when he enters my room.

"Yes," I answer as I jump off my bed, place the book in the last drawer of my desk.

When the campus is crowded by new students and their families, even though getting any help would be almost impossible, I hope to get myself situated today.

We head to the main office to figure out my class schedule situation. I had planned on choosing my classes when I would get back from my trip with Dad but things didn't go as planned and I wasn't able to do it till now. I must figure everything out because school starts in a few days.

I declared my major when applying and added a minor when I got accepted. I need to figure out the names of classes that cover needed credits for both my major and minor. I'm excited to study physical therapy and psychology. After a history of soccer players and psychos in the family, I really want to focus my learning on the different impacts of sport on the physical and psychological life of a person.

Mom, Uncle Mike and I sit with my advisor to explore my class options. He advises me on which classes to take this semester. Then he asks me to choose a general course that can cover as general education courses. The first thing that comes to mind is to take an 'easy A' class and a class I will enjoy. Drawing is the first idea I get. "I'm not great at drawing but a drawing class would be great," I say.

"Okay, we can mark that one down. Any other you're interested in?" he asks.

"I remember seeing an African Art and Culture class. Can it be the other option?" I ask.

Uncle Mike and mom stare at me surprised. They probably don't understand why all of a sudden I'm interested in African art and culture.

"Yes, it is a great option as well," the advisor answers. "We have great professors in the African Studies Program."

I can feel mom's eyes fixed on me trying to unveil the mystery behind this unexpected desire to learn more about African art and culture.

"I think drawing is best, don't you?" she jumps in the conversation. Even though that was a question, she really means 'pick drawing'. And I know that going against her choice would be giving her more reasons to be suspicious of my behaviors. "Yeah, I think I'll go with drawing," I say.

On our way back to my room, mom puts her arm around mine and her head on my shoulder. "African Art and Culture, what was that about?" she asks. They both stare at me waiting for an answer.

"The trip with dad opened my eyes to learning about other cultures and arts. And since I visited and loved South Africa, I want to learn more about African art and culture in general," I express. I don't want to tell them the real reason behind wanting to learn more. And most of all, I don't want to talk about my plan to switch into the African Art and Culture class tomorrow.

This class might be the key to figuring out my dreams. I'm sure that what I see in my dreams look a lot like Africa and the language sounds like an African language. As someone who saw a part of Africa, I can say that I need to learn more about the continent, because the portrayals of Africa in our days can be misleading. Dancing people, living in huts, bathing in rivers, wearing colorful patterned clothes or no clothes at all, living with goats, chickens and different animals. Those are few of the ways they are portrayed in movies and documentaries. But I don't want to learn those things. I hope that the class will give me another side of the culture and help me explore different African countries. And by looking at the culture and art, I'll be able to pinpoint what part of Africa I'm dreaming of and maybe answer why.

I would love to please mom and Uncle Mike but I need to decide this one on my own. I'll be on campus making my own decisions and no one will force anything on me. Today I'll please them but tomorrow, I enter my own journey. A journey in the school I dreamed to go to. A journey playing soccer, learning from mistakes and a journey making wise decisions.

Ma Sabine cleans up the table after we're done eating lunch. Miradel joins her in the kitchen and helps her with dishes by drying the ones she washes.

Dieudonné and I continue our story telling puzzle solving.

September, 2010

"Run boys, faster," Coach Harris shouts as the whole soccer team makes its way around the soccer field for the seventh time. "A few more laps."

We've been practicing this whole week for today's game. We have had two games since the season started. Coach hasn't let me play for the past two games, but I'm hopeful that he won't let this game pass me by.

"Hopefully coach will let me play this game," I tell Zaine. I know I can always count on Zaine. He has been a great friend since my recovery days till today. When most of my High School teammates distanced themselves from the 'Vanderson Virus' as they called it because of my past and dad's past; Zaine stuck by me like a brother and didn't count my past sins against me. He knows me better than dad ever did, better than mom and Uncle Mike. He became my friend when Dad wasn't around and helped me make sense of the importance of Uncle Mike's helpful hand. And I know that I still got in him a friend I can count on, especially now that my world is shifting again.

"He'll let you play," Zaine says confidently. "You're the best player here. And I can bet anything on it."

"Anything really? You're that confident about a half deaf player." I whisper. Coach might not count my past or dad's past against me but deafness in my right ear doesn't help in convincing him that I'm still great at this sport.

"Can you stop with that? You are healthy, strong, athletic, and intelligent; plus soccer is in your blood no matter what your past, your dad's past or any deficiency might bring to the surface." Zaine tells me.

"I know but what if he knows about my past? And what if he's worried I will turn out just like my dad?" I say.

Zaine gives me a weird look and shakes his head in disbelief. He can't believe that I have asked him such a question. Zaine knows that out of everyone here, coach is most likely to know everything about me and also know about dad.

"He probably thinks that by giving me the chance to become even better than what I am today, I'll turn out like my dad."

I don't always mean to bring up those questions but Zaine knows that I have always been judged by dad's soccer career and what his life was like. I don't mind it but it floods my mind. I do wonder what people hear about me, know about me and think of me. My memories, mostly the bad ones, have scarred the way I think of what others think of me. It wouldn't surprise me if the way the coach thinks of me differs from the way he thinks of all the other players in the team.

"Listen, coach is a good man. I'm sure he knows about your dad, knows about you, and knows about all of us. And I'm certain that he wants to get to know the real us and wants us to be our own men by shaping us into good men...through soccer." Zaine says.

His words resonate in my head as my mind travels back in time to my conversation with Dad on the plane ride home. Dad told me that our past might haunt us but I'm my own man in the present and I get to choose to be my own man in the future. Despite my past and what people think of the old me, I am my own man.

"Okay, I'm going to play this game and we're going to win it." I say as I feel this new sense of confidence invade my head, then my whole body. I immediately speed ahead of everyone and keep running faster. A few more laps and more practicing. And time just seems to fly by.

"Now that I am a parent, I realize how much impact parents can have in their children's lives." I say. "I want my daughter to never have to doubt her abilities and to never be looked down because of parents' baggage."

"Thank you Ma' Sabine" Miradel tells her after they finish putting clean dishes away. "Thank you very much, Ma' Sabine." I tell her.

"See you later. God bless you." Dieudonné says.

Ma' Sabine leaves and Miradel sits on the chair. We continue working on the puzzle.

I'm not expecting coach to put me in the game, not yet at least, but the team definitely needs me. We're trailing behind 0 to 2 and it's the beginning of the second half.

I want to play and show what I'm made of and give my team a win. I'm standing at the sidelines studying my teammates and I can definitely see what's not working on the field. If only coach could give me the chance. Studying a better strategy and play will help the team and I have the three plays that can win us this game.

I walk back to the bench, take out a paper and start drawing the three plays."Lod, come here" coach shouts. I stop everything and run to his side.

"Do those three plays, okay?" he orders. Which plays? My plays! He is not kidding; he wants the team to try out my plays.

It takes me about two minutes in the field to put that together in my head and execute his orders. Zaine is my best ally in getting the play to the nine other players. When the idea behind the first play goes to the whole team on the field, three minutes later we get a goal.

The team and I get to working on the play for another goal. Hearing Leola and Lila scream my name from the bleachers, confirms that the second play has given my team a second goal.

There's about fifteen minutes left for the game, we're struggling to get and keep the ball. We need another goal and it's imperative that we get the ball soon and do the next play.

Five minutes later, we get the opportunity for a third play and score. And this time I hear Mom, Uncle Mike, Aunty Defie, Cindy and Cristian join Lila and Leola in a cheering tune.

A few more plays. No goals. The whistle ends the game. I still can't believe I actually played this game. And most of all, my mind is busy processing what kind of miracle it was for each of these plays to actually give us a win. Zaine hug snaps me back to reality.

"You played and we won." Zaine confirms. I smile and let out a shout of victory. I high five my teammates and wait to hear what coach has to say to us.

"Great job!" Coach whispers as he pats me on the back.

"Thank you, thank you for believing in me" I say humbled by his faith in me." You were the man for the job, good work." he tells me.

I'm my own man, the man for the job, I whisper to myself as I lay on my bed with Dad's book on my chest. The thought of Dad and his desire for me to be my own man makes me happy. But most of all I'm glad to be my own man while reflecting the many talents of my old man. Great memories of Dad flood my head. Our father-son soccer games. Our nights watching soccer with family and friends. Enjoying a World cup experience with him.

I close my eyes and relive our last soccer expedition in South Africa. Memories after memories that I don't ever want to forget. I fall asleep, remembering.

The sun shines behind a group of boys and girls coming up the hill. They're walking to the center of the town. Four of the boys are holding big stones.

My first reaction is to walk inside the house, but I can't seem to want to move. Wimbi and Fabrice join me and sit by me as we watch the boys. The rest of the town gathers into a large circle.

Two boys , holding stones, walk to the right of the circle and two other boys, also holding tones, walk to the left of the circle. One of the boys places the stone on the ground, then counts ten close steps, and where he stops his count the other boy places the other stone. The boys on the other side do exactly the same thing. One boy stands between the two stones on the right side of the field, while in the left side, the other boy stands between two stones.

I look across and see a woman wrapping strings around a ball made out of the same strings. The strings are tightly and meticulously rolled that it would be almost impossible to find the right way to untangle them. Then the woman reaches for a black big sock, stretches it and stuffs the ball in it. The woman cuts the rest of sock and hands the ball to the guy wearing a turquoise referee jersey. Patrice, Fabrice's younger brother, is the referee.

"Girls," Sabine shouts as she makes her way to the pile of flowers. The queen, Tamama, is sitting by the flowers. The girls of the town walk to Cynthia one by one and she places in their hands a handful of flowers. I stand and walk to Cynthia. She fills my arms with two handfuls of flowers. The first girl draws a straight line on the sand with the flowers. Then the next girl continues the same way with the same straight line. When it's my turn, I make a line with the flowers I was given. The same pattern goes on till the last girl places the last flowers completing the rectangular shaped soccer field.

"Beautiful. Let's start" Patrice says.

A homemade soccer ball in the center of the soccer field. The boys take their positions, goalies take their places. And the game begins. The team wearing yellow shirts on the right and the other team wearing red shirts on the left. The whistle signals the beginning of the game.

The first three plays of the game are perfect replicas of the plays I used at my first college soccer game. They can do them too and more. The rest of the game is a showdown of great skills. Excellent foot tricks that I would love to be able to do and show off to Zaine and the rest of the team. Some of their tricks are brand new to me and others are familiar. YouTube videos. The young boys play like talented professionals. They dribble from every angle and every side. Their dribbles seem as natural to them as breathing is to anyone. They're so good at the sport that there are so many nice passes but no goal finishes.

Despite the 0-0 score, singing and cheering for both teams keep the game very much alive. Drums join in the celebration. Another great party and great town gathering. When half time comes around, food and beverages are served by the women of the town.

Twenty minutes later the game starts over with two great plays that give each team a goal. By the end of the game, I have drawn four exciting moments of the game. The two beautiful goals, a backflip goal and a straight long shot goal. And two awesome saves made by each goalies.

"After that game, soccer became my life as it was a life to my father. If I wasn't in class, eating, sleeping, or at home; I was on the soccer field with Zaine." I say.

"Many young kids around here do feel the same way." Dieudonné says.

"I completely immersed myself in the sport. My father's soccer fever was starting to show feverish signs in my own life. I was contaminated by his passion, skills and drive." I express as we continue solving the puzzle.

October 2010

"Where have you been man? I was just about to call you." I ask Zaine when I answer the phone.

"Sorry, I had a few things to take care of. Huh..." His tone is different, more preoccupied and concerned. He is usually care free to worry about anything. Something must have happened this morning.

"How was class today?" he asks. "Sorry I couldn't make it."

"Oh man, you missed it." I say. "We had a dancing party today. I'm officially great at shaking my booty. African style." Zaine cracks a laugh. I still can't believe that our African Art and Culture professor made us dance and shake our butts today. One thing I know is that I had so much fun. More fun than in the past months. I barely get opportunities to goof around. I've learned to be serious at all times and be all work and no play. Only Leola and Lila bring out the playful side of me. I miss that. Here in college, being in an athletic team makes everyone watch you closely and you can't make mistakes. You don't get the chance to be goofy or silly because you have to be an exemplary student. But this class brings it out of me, the playful, happy me. I smile, laugh, then smile again and laugh some more. Africans seem to be smiley, happy people despite the things they go through. It is crazy how less than perfect lives can have so much to smile and be happy about.

"I love this class more and more. It's great." I say enthusiastically.

"Well, I won't be missing class again. You can't be the only one learning how to shake it, African style." he laughs. "And I desperately need the fun anyways."

"You sure you're okay man?" I ask. Zaine has never been desperate for fun. He is always the one who brings the fun. He doesn't have a perfect life but he doesn't complain much and doesn't worry much. When he's down or preoccupied, it's usually something big.

"I'm all good for now. We'll talk at lunch."

"Okay, man. I have Positive Psychology class; I'll see you at lunch." I tell him before ending the call.

I enter the classroom. Everyone is in the class when the professor starts the lecture. I would bet that most of my classmates enjoy this class because we have great discussions. Positive Psychology class is a nice class so far. It's interesting, but any psychology is sometimes too shrink-like for me. One think I know for sure is that I'm not doing Psychology to become a shrink.

No offense to Uncle Mike but I think shrinks in our days could be considered mind twisters. They use scientific tricks they learn in classes, like this one, to enter someone's brain and answer his question with answers they extract from his head. By asking the person to talk about how he/she feels, where he/she wants to be in life and how he/she is planning on getting where he/she wants to be; they say that they are helping you be better and find answers. But in reality, you could help yourself if you asked yourself those questions and extract those answers from your own head. Interesting twist there! I sometimes wonder if the pay in our days for shrinks is worth it, when the answers to a person's problems are found in the person and he can extract those answers without sitting on a sofa in a shrink's office. Then again, I know that there will always be people who can't look inside themselves to find answers they need. People sometimes need another human being to help them. Maybe after all, psychologists are needed and do help. I don't have anything against shrinks because Uncle Mike did help me immensely. But I do have a problem with paying them so much to just help us extract answers that are in us to begin with. I question a lot of things in this kind of profession but I am about to get into this line of work. Crazy me.

I have decided to take this class with an open mind to learn about positive psychology. I hope it does shine some light on the positive reasons for doing psychology.

So far, I like the class discussions we've been having. Especially since I'm sitting beside the most down to earth, rational, very intelligent girl who seems to always ask the right questions and give coherent answers.

Her name is Lucille MacBeth. I don't know her well. We've been sitting next to each other since the first day of class. We barely talk about anything else but psychology in class and we don't talk outside of class. I hope I don't chicken out like I did with the girl on the plane and bus ride.

Memories flash back. The girl on the plane. I never got to ask her name. I chickened out and didn't make more effort to get to know her. I survived and I have no idea what happened to her. I haven't even taken time to actually think of what happened to the people that were on the bus, except for dad. I feel so bad for having such a superficial encounter with a person I would never see again. Since that trip, I have become fed up with superficiality in matters of relationships. I want to get to know people; life is too short to waste it on "Hi" and simple class discussions.

Class is over. She's packing her things, ready to walk to the door. No superficial relationships. It's got to happen now.

"Hey, Lucille right?" I call out when she stands.

"Yes. Lod, right?" she asks. I nod and walk behind her. We walk out of the classroom.

"Are you getting lunch soon?" I ask hoping she says yes and we can maybe talk on our way there or even sit with her friends and Zaine.

"I'm actually heading to lunch. Want to have lunch together?" she asks. "That would be great."

"So where are you from Lucille?" I ask.

"I was born in France, I have a British citizenship and I lived most of my life in the U.S." she answers.

"Wow, that's cool" I say amazed. It's not every day that you meet a British of French origin raised in an American culture.

"Thanks. I get that a lot," she says.

"What about you?" she asks.

I open the door, let her in and follow. "American." I say. She laughs. I let out a laugh as well as I realize how boring I sound.

"You must be more than just 'American", think about it. This is a country of immigrants."

"Well, I'm English somehow, Mayflower, boats and immigrants, all the shebang....And I have been told that I have an Italian great grand father. A Moroccan heritage plus a pinch of Native American....I don't really know about the Native American part of me but I could be wrong," I say.

We find a table, put our bags down and started walking to get food. "Pretty much I'm just American." We both laugh.

While we get our food, I text Zaine to let him know that I'm already at the cafeteria. Lucille and I head to the table where we find Zaine who has just arrived.

"What's up man?" Zaine and I shake hands and bump shoulders. "Lucille, my best friend Zaine, Zaine, my new friend Lucille." I introduce them.

"Nice to meet you" Zaine says. Lucille smiles.

When Zaine joins us after getting his food, I fill him in, on how I know Lucille.

"Zaine also has that same type of crazy cultures mix. Tell her." I say.

"I was born in Sierra Leone, I have a Chinese nationality and I lived most of my life in Brazil." he says.

"Wow, that is awesome. Listening to Zaine here, I feel like you now, Lod." Lucille jokes. "Oh yeah, diversity is Zaine indeed." I say proudly.

One conversation leads to another. Soccer enters our conversation when she tells me that her Dad has always been a diehard Arsenal fan. When I tell her my name and tell her about Dad, she literally freaks out. It turns out that her dad liked watching dad play in College. Hearing this brings an inerasable smile to my face. It is always a joy for me to hear people talk about dad and a great man he was. Yes his past failures do speak but not as loud as the soccer legacy he left in his fans like Lucille's dad and in me.

We finish our food but stay at the table chatting. Lucille tells us about her small French community that joined forces and raised money for her college studies and the college studies of two other girls, her friends from the same town. She talked about the privilege it is to represent a whole community that desire to help intelligent children further their education. Her story reminded me one of my dreams.

Maisha asks her mother why every year, for two months of the summer, the whole village mobilizes to do mass farming and get as much crops as possible. The village stays active in selling all the crops to get revenues that are then brought to the town treasurer. Wimbi explains to Maisha the education contract between all the village people. The whole village twenty years before decided to send all the children of the town to the school in the city because the city has the best education in the region. The leader of the village wanted every kid to have the opportunity to go to school and not be deprived because of financial reason. So he made it mandatory that all the revenues of two months of the summer will go in the village's treasury for the education. Every year, all the children of the village go to school in the city because there's always enough money to pay for every child's education.

In a few words I tell the same story to Zaine and Lucille. I don't go much into details. I just tell them that it's tradition in some Africa tribes. I haven't told anyone about the dreams. Not even Zaine. I hope to tell the story someday, but for now I use my dreams as a way to sound cultured.

"You must really be reading the books for our class, man! You are becoming an expert on Africa." Zaine exclaims.

"We're both taking African Art and Culture or should I say he forced me to take with him." he explains to Lucille.

I actually did kind of force this class on Zaine. I convinced him to take the class for my sake. Finding answers through this class is going to be difficult, his helping hand will make it easier for me.

"I need him around for moral support as I strive to become an expert on Africa." I joke.

"Since he got back from South Africa, he's more crazy about Africa than I the native born who visit every year." Zaine says.

"I was there with my dad for the World Cup. It was on our way home that..." I don't finish my sentence when I sense a pinching pain in my chest area. The memories come flying back.

"I heard about the accident. I'm really sorry for your loss. He's greatly missed," she says with so much love and respect. Her words comfort me. "I'm glad you're alive, to keep on his legacy and be even better. There's a reason why, out of two who survived, you were one of them."

Her words ring a loud sounding bell in my head as I realize that I have totally forgotten the fact that I was not the only survivor. There's someone out there who completely understands what I went through, maybe lost a family member as well and is looking for a friend to relate to and a friend to recover with. I can't believe I have been so preoccupied with suppressing my own memories and pains that I didn't realize the helping hand I could be for the other survivor and vice versa.

"You know, I have no idea who this other survivor is exactly." I confess.

"I don't know either, but I was told that there were two survivors." Zaine says.

"I actually would like to know more and maybe even visit the person. I think it will be good for both of us." I say. "If only I knew who it was."

"I can find out. My cousin can find anyone, anywhere. I'll ask him to do a search and let me know what comes up," Zaine says. "You're up for a road trip when we find the person, what if the person is in California?"

"If the person lives nearby, we'll drive if not I'll fly during Christmas break." I say.

"Road trip anyone?" Lucille shouts enthusiastically.

"Road trip, heck yeah." Zaine shouts. "I just love college." I exclaim.

November2010

Dad's birthday is coming up soon. It is going to be hard on the family because we've always thrown grand parties to celebrate birthdays. It's a tradition that supplies us with many crazy memories. When I was three years old, we had a black and white birthday party for Dad. Dad and I got the same suit and mom was the designer who made sure that Dad and I matched and looked handsome to perfection. At four years old, we had a 70's themed birthday for Uncle Mike. Mom designed our three costumes. One month before the party, Grandma Glo and Ria saw my costume and asked mom to costume make their 70's outfit ideas. At the party they acted like 70's women visiting the present. I still remember every great moments of that party. For my fifth birthday, we had a Beach birthday party at the Vanderson grandparents' beach house.

The following summer, mom and dad separated. The separation destroyed our festive attitude. Even though we all had birthdays, Dad's birthdays were always the best themed birthday parties. The grandparents tried to switch the theme birthday parties to my birthday but every theme wasn't the same without dad in the center of the festivities.

Seven years of pretty lame birthdays ended the day mom pulled me aside and talked to me about her plans for dad's 'coming home birthday party,' as she called it. She had planned a grand soccer themed birthday party. The rest of the family was a little unsure of what that would trigger but she knew it would trigger great memories and a promise to never ever do anything that can hurt the family. She was right and had the best idea for dad's return birthday party. That party and the next birthday parties were successful and full of great memories that helped diminish my nightmarish nights.

Not having dad around during his birthday is hard on all of us. We did have a time when he was alive but not really there and we could deal with not having a party at that time. But this is a different birthday, we want him here to celebrate but we won't have him around although he would have loved celebrating with us.

"Don't think too hard. I have ideas, I just need your opinion and input." mom tells me as she plants a kiss on my left cheek. "I have been sitting here staring outside. Reminiscing on the great times we usually have this time of year." I say.

"Well we don't have to stop having more great times here."

I bend forward with my elbows on the table and my cheeks buried in my hands and smile. "So what's on your mind?"

"Your dad's birthday is coming up. I know he's not here but I want to have a thanksgiving service and a party here after the service. What do you think?" she asks.

"It's a great idea mom. What are the details?" I ask. I'm on board with what she wants to do but it's going to be a different kind of party.

"Well I was thinking, a thanksgiving service at the church. I've already spoken to Pastor Baker and he's looking forward to the service," she answers. "We'll have a few people come and talk about your father. Close friends and family. I put together a list." I take a look at the sheet of paper she passes to me and read through the names. Family and some of dad's friends that I know and a few I don't know.

Mom is second to last on the list and has placed my name as the last speaker for the service. I would love to tell her that I don't want to speak or that I don't do well in front of crowds but making her happy is more important.

"Okay. It's a great list." I express. "I'm thinking party afterwards. Themed party as always, of course. I'm thinking Memory Day as the theme," she says.

"Memorabilia of your father will be displayed around the house. We'll give time to tell a few stories about him and spend the night remembering...the great memories we will always cherish." she goes on as weekend plans flood my mind.

"Sure. That's a great plan ma'." I'm not really concentrated on what she is saying. I'm preoccupied by the interesting weekend ahead of me. I take a look at the clock on the wall and it indicates to me that I'm late. Late for my meeting with Zaine and Lucille.

"Way to be excited," she disappointedly points out. "I'm sorry mom, I am very excited...I really am. Dad would have loved it if he was here. I'm excited and I can't wait to put it all together." I tell her.

"Good," she hesitates. "What's on your mind, everything okay at college?"

"Oh, no everything is fine. It's just that I kind of have plans for the weekend with Lucille and Zaine and I'm late for our meet time."

"Oh. We're done actually. We can talk about this later. I just wanted us to talk about the service and the party idea. Since it's in a month, I need you to submit some of your ideas by the end of the week so we can get things done on time for the big day." she says.

"I'll have my ideas for you by the time I'm back from my Virginia Beach trip with Lucille and Zaine." I pick up my bag and walk around the table to kiss her on the cheek. She grins. "What?" I ask.

"You said her name again before saying Zaine's name." Even though I did not mean to, I'm glad it brings a smile to her face. "She's just a friend. She might actually hit it off with Zaine," I exclaim placing a smooch on her right cheek.

"When I find the right girl who feels the same way I do, you will be the first one to know. And you're going to love her."

By the time I take a bus to Zaine's house, both Lucille and Zaine have been waiting in the car for the past hour, ready to go. I hop in the car and we drive off. About five minutes in our drive, I get a text from mom. 'Traveling mercies for you, Lucille, and Zaine. I Love You.' Since the accident, mom has been very protective of me, especially when I'm traveling out of state. I haven't been outside the country since the crash and I don't think she will allow it till I'm thirty. 'Thank you ma'. I love you.' I text back.

Zaine blasts some Lecrae Rebel Album in the sick sound system he got on his birthday for his 1967 Chevrolet Impala. This trip looks very promising when Zaine passes me the info on the other survivor of the bus accident. He lowers the volume of the music. "My cousin found the girl, all he could tell me was where she'll be tomorrow. She does the same thing every Saturday." Zaine says.

"During the week she has school. A high school student. Also during the week, she sees a shrink and spends time with her large family." I read.

"A shrink! She must be taking it very hard." Lucille's comment hit me like hateful words directed to both this girl and me. Her words sound so insensitive for someone who doesn't fully understand the pain this kind of tragedy can engrave in someone's memory. But I prefer to let it go because I'm not exactly sure how she meant her comment.

"On Saturdays she spends about two hours at the park. From 2pm to 4pm. She's dropped off by her sisters and picked up by her brothers," I add.

"Tomorrow will probably be the best time to see her without her large family interrupting." Zaine explains.

"Then she spends the rest of the day with the family. And on Sunday, she spends it at the church and at her shrink's house with the family." I add disappointed. Such a schedule makes it difficult for me to have time to chat with her. All I want is to spend time with her, just making small talks until we get comfortable enough to talk about the accident, our loses and how to deal with the impact on our future.

Miradel joins us at the dining room table. I pull a chair in between Dieudonné and me. She slides her cute 5-year-old body on the chair as I continue telling the story.

Saturday comes fast enough, especially because I couldn't sleep. I spent some of my night thinking of meeting this person. Today is my time at least to tell her who I am and maybe she'll want to meet again some other time. I see a friendship building up soon.

It is chilly out even though the sun's shiny rays are a little bit blinding. We arrive at the park around 12pm and have a picnic lunch on the grass. An hour later, a couple and their two toddlers arrive at the park for a small picnic. Fifteen minutes after, a father and his son walk to the playground. As I watch them I am reminded of times when I would play with dad in the backyard.

When 2pm comes around, I sit in anticipation. I fear recognizing her and at the same time, I fear not recognizing her, not knowing who she is. Maybe our connection through the accident will attract me to her and take my fear away.

A group of five girls arrive at the park. Two Black girls, one Hispanic girl, an Indian girl and a White girl. They're all beautiful. Four of them are dressed like movie stars. The only dressed down girl in the group is holding a notebook, a pencil and color pencils. I don't see her face. They sit at one of the tables near the playground. They chat and laugh for about five minutes before four of the girls leave. One of the black girls, the one who was holding the notebook, stays at the table.

"Those can't be her sisters, really!" Lucille says.

"Like Zaine's cousin said, she's dropped off by her sisters and picked up by her brothers. Large family. Maybe she's in a foster home." I say. All the girls seem to be from different backgrounds, but it wouldn't surprise me if they were all placed in a big foster home. Maybe the girl also lost someone in the accident and has no one else to go to. We might connect even more and be able to help each other deal with our losses.

"It must be her. She's black; I was coming from South Africa. She might be an African girl or an African American visiting the continent... It must be her." We sit there watching her every move. Her back is all we see. I did not pay much attention to her face before she sat. I can't really tie her face to anyone I remember from the flight or the bus ride.

I can feel my heart racing inside my chest. An hour passes by with my feet trembling and hitting the grass each time I stand to make a move.

"It's now or never guys. I want to talk to her before her brothers get here."

My steps are slow and calm. I don't want to scare her. I should start thinking of a way to initiate a conversation without sounding like a creep. A few feet from her table, I see colored drawings on three different white papers. I raise my head and I connect her drawings to the father and son playing at the playground in front of her. Even from far, her drawings seem so detailed and professional.

"Use her drawings as a start", I whisper to myself.

"Those are amazing," I say gently. "You did those?" She doesn't say anything and goes on with coloring the father's jacket on another drawing.

She turns back and looks at me. Her face is very familiar. The scar on the right eye. The silky brown skin. She's the girl who sat by me on the plane. And on the bus. My first class neighbor. I don't forget physical uniqueness. It's her without a doubt.

"Thank You." she says in her distinct African accent. I hear her speak for the first time. I can't believe it. I can't believe she survived. I remember holding her hand a few seconds before the accident. She was scared. She looked worn-out when I first saw her on the plane. But she now looks healthy and strong. Our last moments on the bus, before being ejected out of the bus, flash through my mind like an action movie.

"You can sit if you want. I will be leaving soon. I just need to finish coloring this drawing," she says.

"Thank You...take your time" I answer as I sit confused. I don't know what to tell her. She doesn't seem to remember me. Maybe she doesn't remember much of that day or of me since we barely talked and she barely looked at me.

"I love seeing people make memories. It makes me smile and hope," she says with a smile on her face. "Memories are hopes we..." She doesn't finish the sentence. She blows on the paper.

"More and more people should take pictures, draw memories and write memories down so that you always get time to see them when you want. They're so precious."

I listen attentively. Not missing one word as they each sink in my spirit. She picks up one drawing at a time and takes a look at them with a big smile on her face. The first drawing is the father holding his son's hand, the second drawing is the father putting a Band-Aid on his son's knee and the third drawing is the father pushing his sun on the swing.

The girl stands and walks to the father and his son. "This is for you," she says giving the drawings to the father. The man looks at them and shows his son.

"Thank you, they're amazing," he tells her.

She smiles. "Keep the memories alive, every day." she tells the father. She walks back to the table and gathers her things.

"At the end of a life, the memories remind us of the purpose of each life...to impact another for the better." She says. I want to utter something but I don't know what to say. She has poured so much wisdom. I would like to say something in return. It might be the right time to tell her who I am but here come her five brothers. Three Black boys, one Hispanic boy and a White boy. They all look tuff and cool in their rich kid's clothes. I'm starting to doubt this whole rich looking brothers and sisters from a foster home story.

"Is he bothering you?" one of the boys asks.

"No I'm okay, he was just asking for the table. We can go now," she answers. All the boys give me bad looks as they walk away. "It was good talking to you."

"I just want to say," I blurt out. She slows her steps and turns to me to wait for the rest of my sentence. "I'm the other survivor of the bus accident. I just wanted to meet you and see how you're doing." My confession angers her brothers who decide to walk her away.

"Stay away from her." they warn me. She seems to want to talk to me but they're keeping her and taking her away and I can't do anything about it. They walk away and I take slow steps back to Zaine and Lucille.

"So?" Lucille asks.

"I don't know her name yet, but I know it's her and we're going to speak again...soon." I answer.

"Two decisions made in one day. Two decisions to move forward." I utter.

"They were good decisions. I chose to move forward by helping my mother celebrate the life of my father." I add. "That must have taken a lot of courage." Dieudonné states.

"Adding to it, I chose to move forward by building a friendship based on a common past."

"Crazy."Dieudonné tells me.

"Indeed but those decisions changed the way I looked at the past."

December 2010

Jess' speech was amazing. One of the most intricately written speeches of today. He talked about the wonderful best friend he had in dad. I mean he studied creative writing, I did not expect less. Right after him, mom talked about the wonderful man that loved and cared for her. The love of her life. The man who was a father to her children. A man whose mistakes taught him the importance of family. She went on and talked about the best memories of their marriage which include the unexpected birth of the twins. She talked about how my relationship with dad made her the happiest mother in the world. In tears she talked about how much she missed dad and how much we'll all miss him. Then she talked about the legacy he left her, his children and the world.

I think mom covered all the bases but I don't understand why she put me next and last to give a speech. I'm standing in front of this crowd of staring eyes and waiting ears. No words to express and a fast beating heart. Screaming and running out of the church is not an option unless I'm planning to be a YouTube laughingstock by tomorrow morning. The applause ended more than 30 seconds ago and the clock is about to hit the one-minute margin without one word from me. I'm trying my best not to make any eye contact with the people sitting on those pews. My public speech teacher always said to look at the top of people's heads to not get distracted. But the amount of bald headed man in this crowd is definitely a distraction. I put my head down to be less distracted in hope that when I look back up my inspiration will just flow out of my mouth.

Speak, I whisper to myself.

I lift my head to face the crowd. And our eyes meet. My 'new found friend'. The nickname Zaine, Lucille and I gave my travel and survival companion. The girl I met at the park. Most of all, today she is my inspiration. The sight of her takes me back to our conversation at the park. Her drawing, the father-son time, and the whole spiel about cherishing memories. We are now staring at each other. She lets her teeth show when she smiles at me. I smile back, look down. Then look back up.

"A friend of mine once told me that 'At the end of a life, memories are there to remind us of the purpose of each life...to impact another for the better." I say. Smiles spring from many faces as they realize how much truth can be found in that simple sentence. They're probably thinking of the different ways Dad impacted their lives for the better.

"Dad impacted my life. He impacted Leola and Lila's lives. He impacted mom's life. He impacted your life. You are here as a testimony to that fact. Whether he impacted you through someone else or by being in direct contact with you, he impacted each person in this room for the better. To be stronger, to be more determined, to be wiser, to be a striver, to be a leader, to be a husband, to be a father, to be a loving family member, to be a loving friend, and most of all to live a life that impact others into being better." I add.

"I celebrate every memory I have of Ilan Vanderson; the man I call 'Dad' because any lesser title can never suit him. No speech could exactly express the magnitude of the great impact he has had in my life. So here is along sentence that can do it. I want to be like my dad and impact lives for the better but I also want to be an even better man to leave a legacy that impacts more lives. Thank You."

Zaine's not wiping tears from his eyes. He is wiping them on Lucille's blouse. The whole family, Lucille and Jess are shedding a few tears. I get off the podium trying to keep my own tears from showing and make my way back to mom's side. Pastor Baker goes on the podium.

"Thank you son. Thank you everyone. Let's all stand for the prayer of thanksgiving on this Memory day. Let's pray." Pastor Baker says. "Lord, thank you. We are thankful for your mercies that endure forever. We are thankful for our lives and the breath you breathe into us every morning." he prays.

"On this special day, the day we remember the gift of life you gave your people through Ilan Vanderson, we thank you. We thank you for his life, for the blessing he was and will continue to be and we thank you for the legacy he has left on this earth. I pray Lord for the family and friends present here, let your peace that surpasses all understanding walk with them as they continue in the path you have laid in front of them. In all things, may you get all the glory. In Jesus name I've prayed and the people say, Amen!"

At the end of the prayer, people come to greet my family. About ten minutes into greeting everyone, my thoughts wonder off to my 'newfound friend who is standing by the door of the church. She is chatting with Cindy and Cristian. I shake hands here and there and say many "thank you" but my thoughts are mostly in finding a way to talk to this girl before she leaves. I don't know why she came to the service. Maybe to support me. Which is quite thoughtful of her. I can't let her go without saying thank you or even asking her name.

Leola and Lila come by my side. I take them both in my arms. They're getting heavier day by day but it's not a good enough reason for me not to take them in my arms once in a while. I place a kiss on each of their cheeks. When I turn my head to spot if the girl is still in the church, our eyes meet, she smiles and walks out with Cindy. She's leaving and I won't get to talk to her. Another missed opportunity. There's got to be a time when I finally meet her and get to speak with her. I have to make time and make it happen no matter what.

"I wish I had told my father all those great things when he was still alive. Why do we always wait until it's too late to tell the people we love how much we appreciate them?" I ask him.

"Because we get lost in living every day, instead of appreciating every moment with the ones will love. Don't worry I have been guilty of it too."Dieudonné explains.

I run my hand through Miradel's hair. "I love you, daddy." Miradel expresses to me while placing puzzle pieces on the right spot. I kiss her forehead and continue the story.

After the service everyone joins us for the party. Even my 'new found friend'. She's sitting with aunty Defie and it seems aunty is very fond of her. They seem very close. Like close friends.

I haven't spoken to her yet. I've been busy making sure that everything's going smoothly. From time to time I catch her smile when I look her way and sometimes lose track of my work. Daydreaming of our first encounter. Our first conversation.

"I heard you were in Virginia a few weeks ago. How was it?" Uncle Mike springs behind me. I'm happy to know that he doesn't know the real reason behind my visit. And I prefer to keep it that way.

"Oh, it was good, kind of chilly though. It seems like the farther north you go, the colder it gets. I don't know how you guys do it."

"It wasn't that cold. Have you ever been to Pennsylvania during the fall or the winter? Yeah that's cold." he jokes.

The doorbell rings. "I got it" mom says as she reaches for the doorknob.

Mom opens the door and in walks Eli Chambers, his girlfriend about half his age and his daughter Ruth. Eli is Dad's old friend and teammate. But to me Eli Chambers is the main person I blame for destroying Dad's life by introducing him to the crazy world of drugs, alcohol, and mischievous behaviors. I also blame him for not only introducing Dad to all his mistakes and bad doing, but for letting dad introduce me to their crazy world. He made foolish promises to get Dad into bigger circles of powerful people but got him to lose seven years of a powerful bond with the most important people in his life.

"What is he doing here?" I say in anger.

"Cool down. He was invited." Uncle Mike orders.

You didn't pay attention to the list, did you?" Uncle Mike whispers. He's right, I did read the list mom gave me but did not pay much attention to it. If I had I would have erased his name. "He doesn't deserve to be here. He didn't even come to the funeral." I exclaim.

"Let it go. It's neither the time nor the place," Uncle Mike orders holding my chest, halting me from making any steps for the door.

"Maisha, can you come please?" he tells my 'new found friend'. Processing. My head processes Uncle Mike's words while she finishes her conversation with Leola and Lila and walks towards us. Her name cannot be Maisha because Maisha is the girl in my dreams. But Uncle Mike said the name exactly the way people say it in my dreams.

"What did you call her?" I whisper to Uncle Mike.

"Maisha is my name" Maisha says as she extends her hand.

"Lod," I say. We shake hands.

"We are finally meeting. I have heard a lot about you." she says in the most beautiful African accent with the most beautiful smile on her face.

"Oh really?" I say unsure of what she means.

"Don't worry, with me she only spoke of meeting at the park the boy who survived the accident. And I told her she had nothing to worry about. He's not a creep. At least that's what I...think" Uncle Mike jokes, grins and walks to the kitchen. Now everything makes sense, Maisha's shrink is Uncle Mike. What a devious man! He was trying to get me to spill my secret without saying that he knew all along. He always seems to know when something is up.

"What else have you heard?" I ask.

"Well, I met your aunt Cindy, your uncle Cristian. I also met your grandparents, a few of your cousins, your sisters and your mom about two months ago."

That's exactly a month after the accident. They all probably didn't tell me about her because they judged that I wasn't ready to cross that ocean of memories. They often underestimate me. Well this time I will prove them wrong. I am strong and I don't need anyone's help to start up this friendship and keep it going despite the dreadful remembrances Maisha and I share.

"You pretty much met all of them and I would prefer not to know what they said about me," I joke. "But I'm sorry that I scared you that day at the park."

"Oh no, it's okay. I was not scared," she answers.

"I just wanted to meet you and get to know the person with whom I share survival memories." I express.

"It's not a good memory even if we do share It," she says.

"But it is the first puzzle piece of the memories that connect us." Hearing myself talk resonates differently in my mind.

"Lod, your presence is requested," mom shouts from the living room. "Come!"

"Sorry," I excuse myself.

"No problem, go ahead." she tells me.

When I enter the living room, it seems like the whole crowd lingered there the entire time listening to mom's stories of dad. "Someone has requested that you tell of your most memorable memory of your father." she smiles. I can see Uncle Mike's hand wave from afar with a grin on his face, which tells me he requested my story.

"My favorite memory of dad. Um...Actually my favorite memory of Dad is two memories that are connected." I say as I sit on the arm of the chair mom is sitting on. I go on and tell the story of my 200-piece puzzle. When I was four, dad took a picture of me playing soccer and went with it to a puzzle maker who designed a puzzle of my picture. The day he brought it home, we put the puzzle together but missed one piece. That day we looked around the house to find the missing piece but never found it. Dad confirmed that he brought 200 pieces because he saw each piece be placed one by one in the box. For the next months we looked everywhere but didn't find it.

We decided to keep the unsolved puzzle intact until we find that missing piece. Nine years later, after a sweaty soccer game with friends, Dad and I got home to find Leola and Lila playing with puzzle pieces. Then we realized that those were my puzzle pieces that mom put back in the box during one of our moves. Dad took Lila in his arms and I took Leola in my arms and we sat for the rest of the day putting the puzzle together. At the end we did not expected to have the last piece, but there it was in the box. Dad and I gave out a short laugh at the sight of the piece, then I picked it up and placed it with the rest of the puzzle. I remember telling dad that the piece was a little bit messed up and I remember him saying "The piece might be bent, scratched, disheveled and scarred but it's still part of the puzzle. You need to find it and rejoice while doing the puzzle because the last piece has been found. We're done. We finished the puzzle." After that Dad stood and started to dance. I didn't even think twice of how foolish we looked and joined him. We busted some pretty cool moves that day. We kept dancing even when mom came in the room to take the girls. On her way out of the living room, she turned and said that nine years ago she had found the piece and placed it under the board on which we did the puzzle. But we did not look hard enough to find it even though we had looked everywhere. Her comment stopped us for a second but we resumed to our dancing as she went up the stairs with the girls in her arms.

At the end of the story, they ask me to show off a few of the moves Dad and I did. And as soon as my hands and feet start moving, I hear laughs bark up from every corner of the room. And when I look on my right, there is Maisha laughing hysterically.

"Great memories. And the beginning of another crazy adventure." I say.

"Life with Maisha is always the beginning of an adventure. The journey was really just beginning." Dieudonné affirms.

"Oh yes!" I agree. Miradel rests her head on my chest. I look outside and see the sun go down." You know what; we should have something to eat."

"Yes, I'm hungry." Miradel says. "What about having dinner at my place. You have both welcomed me in your home and I would like to return the favor." Dieudonné suggests.

"Miradel and I would love too." I say. "And we can continue the story, here, same time tomorrow."

"That would be great. I'm excited to hear more." Dieudonné approves.

END OF THE FIRST DAY OF PUZZLE SOLVING 
