When I was five, I walked down the aisle, carrying the rings that would signify that my favorite aunt, my most beautiful "girlfriend" and confidant, the one who would steal me away from Sunday school and take me to the store for candy, was no longer "mine." I didn’t stumble but, instead, walked proudly, oblivious to how absent she would become.
When I was nine, I walked into the lawyer’s office and told my dad not to worry, that I would live with mom until I was fourteen, and then I would live with him until I was eighteen. It seemed extremely equitable to me, about four and a half years each.
When I was eleven, I ran away from home. I left at 4:00 in the afternoon, before mom got home, and was found down by the river aroud 10:00 that night. I learned to run away from home in my mind after that.
When I was thirteen, I walked around the block with mom, answering questions she had about decisions which lay before her. I remember telling her to not sign the papers that dad wanted her to sign. I told her she would not see any more child support if she signed them. She signed them anyway. She didn’t get anymore money, but dad spent a few nights in jail several times.
When I was fourteen, I stumbled home at 1:30 in the morning, severely violating my 11:00 curfew. We had recently moved to Fort Lauderdale, and I had gotten high for the first time. I am unsure how I made it home, considering I do not remember anything between the moment two girls undressed me in the front yard of Robby’s house and the moment I got out of the shower and saw a Reader’s Digest on my pillow, opened to an article on marijuana.
When I was fifteen, I stood on my feet for hours on end, washing dishes at Po’ Folks restaurant. I was trying to make money so that I could take my girlfriend to the best restaurant in town - it wasn’t Po’ Folks.
When I was sixteen, I walked on stage in Greenville, South Carolina, playing keyboards for a band I had recently joined. I caught that virus, and I still have it.
When I was eighteen, I walked down the aisle to receive my high school diploma. I felt as though everything worthwhile that I had learned had been taught in places other than school.
When I was nineteen, I walked out of the university, throwing away a scholarship and much more because mom made me live at home and because the band was a hell of a lot more fun.
When I was twenty-one, I walked back into another college in another state. I had a different plan, and I decided to major in classical piano performance.
When I was twenty-three, I decided to marry someone who didn’t appeal to me (almost word-for-word a Bob Dylan lyric).
When I was twenty-nine, I walked around the delivery room holding my first son.
When I was thirty, I walked out of the courtroom, single, happy, and ready to move on.
I have walked in thirty-two states. I walked to and from work for months, waiting until I could afford a car. I ran from the cops more times than I care to admit. I walked before the Supreme Court and raised my right hand to get sworn into the Bar Association. I walked around carrying several more kids. I walked into bedrooms and out of them. I walked into lives and out of them. I walked with God, and I ran with the devil. I danced in the street at 3 in the morning, and I danced at wedding receptions and one funeral. I jumped rope, played hopscotch, kicked ass, kicked footballs, and walked for never-enough-time with my kids. I have walked and ran and strolled and skipped and lumbered through retail jobs and retail shopping excursions, through churches and strip clubs, down dirtroads and Madison Avenue, into courtrooms and into schools. I have walked to the light. I have walked away.
So far, so good. Now, as new days dawn and wisdom falls like scattered, singular flakes of teasing snow, I promise to take better care of you. Most importantly, I promise to direct your steps in a much wiser manner. Feets don’t fail me now.
