SEVEN DAYS The Journey Home

It was August 13, 2011, Saturday evening. I had just flown back from Los Angeles and arrived in Atlanta at seven in the evening. I made it home, showered and climbed into bed. I was exhausted, tearful, and when I feel asleep my heart was heavy. It was a little before one o’clock in the morning when my eyes opened and I looked at the clock. My spirit became extremely quiet. I whispered my nephew’s name: “Marquel, I am here. Do you feel my spirit?” My lips moved to make sure I was heard, “It’s okay, man, don’t worry. I am here. Do you feel me? I am here.” I said a prayer for him and dozed off to sleep. At six a.m., I received a call, the voice on the other end saying “Cuz, you alright?” I replied, “Yes, I am alright.” I drifted off to sleep. The phone rang again, but by the time I fumbled to find and answer it, the person had hung up. In my heart I knew why I got the phone calls. I felt it at one o’clock in the morning, but I had to be sure. I lay there another hour and then called my mom in L.A. My mom picked up, “Pat, he is gone on to heaven.” I could tell she had been crying and was exhausted. I asked, “How is Marie?” (My sister, Marquel’s mom) She replied, “She is lying down next to me. She got a little rest.” I asked her what had happened and she told me. It was late in the night when Marie came and said, “Momma, Marquel looks a little funny.” My mom was putting clothes into the washing machine. Marie went back into the room and my mom followed. My mom went to Marquel, looked at him and then touched him. She looked at her daughter and said, “Marie, I think he died.” It was one o’clock in the morning. I called my best friend, Sheryl, who lives in Atlanta. She was in Florida on her way to her cousin’s christening. Before I spoke, she knew though she waited to hear the inevitable. “Mornin’, Pat, how are you? What’s up?” as casually as she could ask, a silent response to what she had already felt. “Marquel is gone,” was all I could say. She whispered, “When?” “He died early this morning, after midnight.” Sheryl then told me that she awoke that morning and at first she’d thought the song of birds had filled the room, then she felt it was his soul. She felt it and knew Marquel had left the earth. I told her I felt it and knew it too. She understood now what she heard that morning with the birds in song was Marquel entering heaven. The beauty of song made perfect sense. I prepared to go back to Los Angeles, where I had just returned from less than twenty-four hours ago.