STRINGS of COLOR (25 page)

"Chris… you were my only true love, friend and husband."

N
aya watched as the site began to fill. She could feel the sorrow in the wind. It sunk deep into her kidneys and caused her to shiver.

She watched tears fall. She saw hearts that were aching and the minds that were still in shock from it all.

Her own insides were numb.

She shook hands. Kissed people she hadn't seen in years, and smiled at all those that came to wish her well.

Naya thought back to the very first time they met. It was at her first audition with The Coppers. Chris had been her attorney.

She smiled when she remembered how cocky he was back then.
But,
she thought to herself
—so was I. So was I.

The tears slipped down her cheeks as she went back to that day.

"So you think you can sing?" he asked.

"I wouldn't be sitting out here if I didn't, now would I?"

"What makes you think you can sing better than them?"

Man, I still can remember how many rows of women were lined up against that wall, all vying for that part. So many, and all of them were so much older than I was at the time.

But I smiled at him and said…

"I'm sure even a big-shot entertainment attorney remembers his mama cooking him his favorite dish, don't you?"

"Sure, but what does that have to do with my question?"

"Why was that dish your mama made so good to you? I'll answer that for you…It was because every time she made that dish, she did as the saying goes—put her foot in it. She gave it all the love she could.

"Well, Mr. Wesley, when I step out on that stage, I put my foot in my voice and I give it all the love I can."

Chris grabbed a pen out of his briefcase and began scribbling.

"Why did you write down what I just said?

"Because when we get in there your voice might get you on the stage, but it's how I present you on the floor that sells you. Everyone must have a pitch, Ms. Jazzmyne, and it can't be the same as everyone else's. It has to be something different, something that makes them see that you're the woman for the part. And who else knows why you're the best, better than yourself."

What else can I say about that except that… he had me.

Naya's eyes traveled the length and width of his coffin. Engraved on the top was the first song he had heard her sing that day.

My first song to him, only neither of us knew it at the time.

I remember stepping onto that stage with him looking at me, Misty was there looking at me, and even Mr. Copper himself was staring. Talk about someone being nervous. But then I saw Chris smile and I parted my lips and allowed the music to enter. I allowed it to seep deep into my veins and to flow right past my kidneys. I could feel it pumping slowly into my lungs and when the heart of the lyrics hit just the tip of my heart—let's just say that I put my foot in my voice, just as I said I would, and I kept stomping it out until every soul in that room that day could feel it.

I had barely opened my eyes when I felt his presence. There he was, standing right in front of the stage, grinning with those beautiful ocean-blue eyes of his.

He said to me, "You know, I think that was way better than my mother's spaghetti and meatball dinner. In fact, I'd say you put more than your foot in that song, I'd say you put your life into those lyrics."

Chris… you were my only true love, friend and husband.

Naya closed her eyes as they began to lower the casket.

Good-bye, baby. Good-bye
.

When she opened them, all those that were a part of her embraced her.

Her family.

Jonathan.

Simone.

Felicia.

Her grandchildren.

Misty.

Monà.

Even JK.

Dear Diary,

It's been two months since I buried him. My heart still aches. The tears still come. There are many nights of loneliness. Many days when I reach out for him and realize that he's gone.

Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.

Sometimes I feel like I'm dying myself.

A month ago I buried the man I had called the beast, for most of my grown life. Some people feel as if they could never forgive someone who took away their innocence at the tender age of thirteen. I found that if I didn't, I would have never seen his regrets. Never felt his tears and knew how sorry he really was. There still is no excuse for what he did to me, but in the end, I found peace from the pain.

I forgave, I survived, and I moved on.

It has been a long journey for me, but finally here I am with something I never thought I would ever have, family.

Yes, we still have our battles to fight and our mountains to climb; I'm not going to lie about that. But, what family doesn't?

In a few months the world will read about my journey. They will see my pain, enter inside my heart, and understand all that I've been through.

I decided to let Jake finish the book about me, only after I gave him a piece of my mind for trying to do it without my consent. In some ways, it has been good therapy for me.

My CD is scheduled to release the same day as the book; I am calling it…For the Love of Jazzmyne. It is dedicated to my Chris.

Next week, Simone and Carl are getting married right here in my home. I suspect that sometime soon, there will be another one.

As I think about my daughter, my son and even my sister, I find sheer happiness and laughter that bounces off my walls and slips joy up into my heart.

It's going to be a better day.

Is the story I heard the other day.

For me, it's no longer a fairytale and finally no longer a dream.

My name is Naya Monà Wesley, the world has called me Jazzmyne but here I am… smiling, living, breathing and thankful, ever so thankful.

Naya placed her pen down and stared at her own words. She let out a long sigh and placed her diary inside the drawer of her nightstand.

That's when her eyes caught site of it. Lying in between the bed and her nightstand was a picture that she had taken from a box she had found in JK's closet many months ago.

Look at me with my high yellow dress on, and that huge pink flower attached to the side of my ponytail. I still remember those shoes. Those white shoes that were covered with pink and yellow polka dots. There is J.K., standing right behind me with a dingy pair of jeans on, a semi-ironed striped shirt and a smile bigger than the sun.

Man, look at my smile. Those were the days. Those were real days. I was seven then, young and still full of innocence.

Thank goodness, I still have these memories.

She opened up the bottom drawer of her nightstand to place the picture inside.

Naya stopped. She felt a slight tremble in her hands. She reached in, pulled it out, and placed it on her lap.

Her fingers slid across the top of it.

She had forgotten all about it, her father's journal.

Naya curled up in her bed and allowed her eyes to follow the pen of the man she once called daddy, the beast, and now—father.

She decided to start from the beginning…..

When I was born, two people stared into my blue eyes; but only one wanted me. It's a hard truth to accept growing up as a boy, but I learned to not only accept it but to live with it.

My mother's name was Sarah Ann Creek and my father's name was Kenneth Creek. I was given the name Jonathan Kenneth Creek, but grew up to prefer being called JK.

Growing up in the midst of both of them, I learned, lived, and experienced the definitions to many things, some things way before I should have.

When I was five years old I learned the definition of the word hate. It's not something a child should ever have for the actions of his mother. A part of me is ashamed to even admit it. When I think about that day, I honestly can't find another word to describe how I felt. I've tried, over and over again.

I remember that it was rather cold on that day. My father had taken me, for the first time, all by himself to the toy store, just him and I. There was no assistant of his rushing me along because they didn't really want to be there. For the first time, I was no different than any other boy going to the toy store, and holding his father's hand.

Eagerness, anticipation, and joy were on my face. Although, I didn't know what any of those words meant at the time, I sure knew how they felt.

Father had been trying to cheer me up. You see, I had been crying for her the night prior. For three years, it seems I had been doing so. You will understand why after I say what I have to say about that day. I need to get this off my chest. It has been like a memory burning inside my head. Where was I? Oh yes, talking about the weather and the toy store.

I remember that my toes had felt like ice cubes as father and I stepped out of the car. I had grabbed his hand and wore the biggest smile on my face. It was a sight worthy of a photographer, I guess. I don't think I smiled like that ever again.

She was sitting across the street in a coffee shop with dark glasses on. I recognized her before he did and called out, "Mama." My father's head turned toward the direction of which my tiny finger pointed as I kept calling out her name. I grasped at my father's hand and I tried to pull him toward her. He wouldn't move.

It seemed like hours had passed by as each of us stood staring at each other that day. I didn't understand why she didn't come to us. I didn't understand why we weren't going to her. I was five years old. A child should never have to explain a situation like that, but here I am doing just that.

I remember my father pulling me into the toy store. I could see the anger on his face and I had wondered if it was toward me, deep down I knew that wasn't the case. We shopped without saying much to each other and when we got ready to leave, I remember staring at the window of the coffee house across the street, hoping she would still be there. She wasn't.

When I caught my father staring in that direction as well and saw a tear fall from the tip of his eyes, it was at that moment that I felt an emotion that, to this day, I wish I had never felt for anyone.

You see, my mother had been gone for three years. She left us because she didn't want me, just him. That I realized was the plain and simple truth.

You (who ever you are reading this) are probably wondering how I remember all of this. As I write this, it was fifteen years ago. I am now twenty.

I will probably never know all the details of what happened between them and, to be honest, I can't remember the day she left all too well. I was around two years old then. I do, however, remember crying. I remember my father always trying to console me, always trying to buy me things. I didn't want things; I wanted her. Doesn't every child? As I sit here looking back on my childhood I wonder if she was ever really there.