There was a dark spot expanding in the grass beneath his upper half.

   “Quan, let’s GO!”

       That’s when Quan noticed the gun in his hand.

        And dropped it.

    Then he allowed himself to be pulled into a

run.

September 10, 2017

    Dear Dad,

    I don’t really even know how to start this letter. I’ve tried five times now, and can’t seem to find the right words.

    Part of the problem is there’s too much to write. A lot has happened since that night they took you away, and to catch you up on everything would take time I’m not really sure I have at this point.

    I will say: I got YOUR letters…all 104 of them. I read every single one, and now I owe you an apology. Maybe that’s the best place to start…

    I’m sorry, Dad. For not writing you sooner. Not that I could’ve responded to the letters you sent ME—for reasons wholly outside my control, I only gained access to them a few days ago, almost a full year after you stopped writing. But even that is saying something, isn’t it? Whether I knew about it or not, you wrote to me consistently for over four years without ever receiving a response.

    I could’ve done the same.

    I also want to apologize for letting myself believe you’d given up on me. When I got to some of the later letters you wrote and realized you’ve been under the impression I’D given up on YOU…I dunno. It kinda stabbed me in the heart a little bit.

         Imma be real, Dad: I’ve never really felt like I’ve had much…power, I guess. But reading that last letter from you…That one part where you say you know you made some mistakes and you wouldn’t blame me for “wanting to pretend (you) don’t exist,” but that you hope I never forget that you love me “and will always want only the best” for me…Man. That really made me feel some type of way.

    I didn’t realize I could make YOU feel like that, Dad. It seems so backwards. You’re the parent and I’m the kid. I guess I just assumed my feelings toward you didn’t really matter because you’re the one with the authority? I don’t know how to explain it.

    Let me make it clear (even though I feel kinda funny writing it): Dad, I could NEVER forget you and I have NEVER wanted to pretend like you don’t exist. And I’m sorry for EVER making you feel like I could.

    Everything is just real messed up. Everything.

    Which leads me to my final apology: I failed, Dad. I failed to become what you believed I could be. I’ve gotten in a lot of trouble over the years, and I’m in some trouble now.

    It’s too much to explain right now, but after you got taken away, bad thing after bad thing after bad thing started happening. Your letters were hidden from me for a long time because of some of those bad things. And the person who hid them is no longer with us (which is another kinda-bad thing that might’ve led to a definitely bad thing).

         Anyway, without you, I didn’t really have anybody in my corner. I’m sure that sounds like an excuse, but it’s true. Mama had her own stuff going on, and my favorite teacher left, and it seemed like no matter how good I TRIED to do, it never worked. And I really did try. I need you to believe me on that.

    I don’t want to think too much about it because there’s nothing that can be done about it now, and that makes me real mad…but I can’t help but wonder how different things might’ve been if I’d gotten your letters when you sent them. Honestly, I just cried as I read your words about how much you believed in me and how you were taking responsibility for your actions, but you knew I was headed in a different direction. How “thinking about all the great things” I would do is what kept you going.

    Dad, if I’d known that, I would’ve…I dunno. Maybe I would’ve…

    I can’t even write it.

    Doesn’t matter now. I chose my path. Though, real talk—and I promise this isn’t me making an excuse—I don’t really see where there was a different path for a dude like me. Just like there probably wasn’t a different one for a dude like you. Is what it is, right?

    I’m likely going away for a long time, but I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I didn’t let you know I love you and I’ll never give up on you, Dad. There’s this part of me that feels like I’m supposed to be mad at you for being gone, but…I’m not. Especially not now, knowing you were writing to me all those years.

         I just wanna say thank you. For your words. Even though I didn’t know about them until it was too late.

    Actually, I take that back. It’s not too late. Your letters reminded me of my power, and now I know what I gotta do.

    I love you, Dad. Stay up, aiight?

    One day we’ll meet again. I hope.

          Your son,

     Jr.

April 24

    Dear Justyce,

    Man, your ass had a LOTTA questions in that last letter you sent. What’s crazy is Doc and Liberty (She so damn fine, bruh. I’m not a religious fella, but good LAWD.) have been asking me some of the same shit…which means I actually have some answers.

    Before we get into all THAT, though, I have news: your boy is three and a half weeks away from becoming a high school graduate. I get to put on a cap and gown and the whole nine (over my jumpsuit, but still).

    I’m getting a little emotional thinking about it. Like I’m excited…but I’m also mad. Even sad.

    Weird seeing me write that, ain’t it? A dude is up in here gettin’ in touch with his feelings and shit. I was extra tired a few weeks ago, and slipped up and told Doc about these episodes I have sometimes. He said something to somebody around here, and next thing I know, I’d been assigned to a new counselor. Black lady named Tay—short for Octavia, but she said don’t call her that (I feel it). She’s got this blond fade that makes me wish I could hit the barbershop, and she’s probably the coolest adult female I’ve ever met—though I’ll admit it took me a minute to warm up to her. WAY easier to talk to than Agnes, the overly chipper middle-aged white woman they had me with before. I pretty much NEVER talked to her out-of-touch ass.

         Getting back to the point: Tay said she’s pretty sure I’ve been having “panic attacks” (which sounds mad violent, don’t it?) and I have that same PTSD thing I remember you saying your dad dealt with. I thought it was only linked to being in the military and going to war, but apparently a lot of the stuff I went through as a kid qualifies as “trauma” and my brain has created these…reactions to anything that reminds me of the traumatic events. She calls them “triggers”—which IS a trigger (the psychological kind she be talking about), so I’ve been referring to them as sparks.