Natashia Deon: Grace

No more flashes.

No more watching.

No distance. No waiting on miracles. This ending is mine.

There’s only darkness here now.

An arc of light just crossed the sky. A star.

A star.

Around it comes many strands of other light. A shower of ’em like a million shooting stars racing down at once. I want to touch ’em.

White spreads around me, gathering together to form a single tunnel of bright.

I know this tunnel.

I know it’s for me.

My vision blurs with tears and I see Momma waiting at the end of it for me, her hand held out to me.

“Naomi,” she say, her voice like a song.

“Momma!” I say.

I want to run to her but I’m frozen here. A small window is behind me, framed in black. And through it I see Josey. This time, walking away from me with Rachel and Squiggy. Her clothes are bloodstained but she’s safe. My grandchildren are clean. They’re so distant now and almost unreal, like looking at a perfect painted picture you cain’t step in.

But I can, if I go back now.

I hesitate. And I’m not sorry for it. Not sorry for my unsure. I’m too old to apologize for the ways I feel. So I’m not sorry for my sadnesses right now, or this love I cain’t contain.

It’s beginning to burst from me. Toward Josey and my grandchildren and Jackson. Toward Momma. Everything around me. I’m consumed.

For the first time, there’s a new feeling resting on me.

Through me.

It’s leading me forward. To Momma.

The flashes are peeling away from me like an undressing. The final piece a blouse over my head.

I’m naked.

Fearing nothing.

Loved.

WHERE DO YOU start when thanking people for a dream realized? With the person who was there to help you take your last step, or the person who first believed in you? Or gave birth to you? Or gave birth to one of the people who helped along the way, or the person herself or himself, or the person who organized the event or taught the class that led you to the person or the people? Or the person who made you feel at home? Or the cab driver who got you there on time, or didn’t and because of it, there was a chance meeting? Or…

Maybe there are no real beginnings anymore. Maybe the world is too old for that. Maybe there are just continuations of works laid out before we were even born. And what’s been said is true: we are all products of ancient loves, and of long relay races orchestrated by the universe. God. And for me, I’m walking with Jesus.

I thank God for choosing me to carry this story and for the privilege to be the one to take it across the finish line. This is a new continuation for someone else. And for me.

To my courageous and loving mother who has had as many names as she’s had lifetimes, Mildred Millie “Shirley,” my Dad, John, Jr. To the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, my husband, Lee; and to God’s princess and prince, Ava and Ash. To my adorable and wonderful sister, Katrina; my charming and wonderful brother John III; and to these stars, my brothers and sister: Tony, Michael, Fuschia and Parker.

To my family in Alabama and to those who are still living in East Tallassee, Alabama: Uncle “Dolf” Warren and Aunt Della; to the pillars of my childhood: Grandma Lurlean, Granny Harris, Katrina Brasher, and Hazel Ford. To the hope and beacon that has been Oprah Winfrey, to poet Romus Simpson, to Tod Goldberg, to my incredible agent Rachel Sussman and exceptional editor Dan Smetanka, and my publisher Counterpoint Press.

To Michelle Franke, Adam Somers, Jamie Wolfe, David Thomas, Jeff Eyres, Casey Curry, Heather Simons, Danny Corey, to David, Dee and Jason Saunders, to Manjit Sohal: my first friend while living in England. To Neena Bixby, Marytza Rubio, Cynthia, and Robert Eversz. To my pastors and to Nancy Hardin, A.M. Dellamonica, and Marcela Landres.

To the PEN Center USA Emerging Voices Fellowship Program, Breadloaf Writers’ Conference, Megan Fishmann, Willie Davis, Kaitlyn Greenidge, Katherine Deblassie, Heidi Durrow, Libby Flores, Jamie Schaffner, Tiffany Hawk, Joshua Mensch, Zoe Ruiz, and all of those artists especially women and writers of color who came before me and those I have the pleasure of working with now; to the publishers who’ve published my work, and those unnamed friends who have offered words of encouragement, a sofa to sleep on, a cup of coffee, a meal, a dollar, a ride, a discount, a recommendation, a prayer, a good opinion, volunteer time, or have just listened.

To the powerhouse that is the Los Angeles Literary Community.

And finally, to the Beverly Hills Film Festival which honored me with my first award for this novel when it was first born as a screenplay, to the Charleston Film Festival, HistoryPlace.com, the books The Jews of South Carolina and The History of Tallassee. To Wikipedia, Dickinson House in Belgium, and to my church family including HV Hot Topic who have encouraged me to follow my calling.

I’m so thankful for all of you.