I don’t know how she’s survived over there all by herself. Hell, it’s been six years since her divorce. To my knowledge, Paris don’t love nobody and don’t nobody love her. She put up a good front, like everything just so damn hunky-dory. Only she ain’t fooling me. I know when something wrong with any of my kids. They don’t have to open their mouth. I can sense it. Paris spend so much energy trying to be perfect, trying too hard to be Superwoman, that I don’t think she know how lonely she really is. I guess she think if she stay busy she won’t have to think about it. But I can hear what’s missing. She too damn peppy all the time.

I’m here to testify: ain’t no time limit on heartache. Cecil done broke mine so many times I’m surprised it still know how to tick. But forget about me. Paris been grieving so long now for Nathan that she done pretty much turned to stone. I think she so scared of getting her heart broke again that now she’s like the Ice Queen. Can’t nobody get close to her. They say time heals all wounds. But I ain’t so sure. I think they run around inside you till they find the old ones, jump on top until they form a little stack, and they don’t go nowhere until something come along that make you so happy you forget about past pain. Sorta like labor.

What time is it? I know my stories is off. I watch Restless and Lives and occasionally World, but some days they piss me off so bad that I can’t hardly stand to watch none of their simple-asses. Ha ha ha. I’m “trippin’ ” as Dingus would say, laying in a hospital bed in intensive care thinking about some damn soap operas when what I should be doing is thanking the Lord for giving me another shot: Thank you, Jesus.

To be honest, I didn’t trust Nathan from the get-go. Paris hadn’t known him but two months when they got married. He was in law school for seven of the eight years they was married. Even I know it only take three. I just bit my tongue and gritted my teeth when she told me she wasn’t taking him to court for no child support. “I don’t want the hassle,” she said. That was what, 1987? Here it is 1994 and I can count on one hand how many times he done seen his son since he went back to Atlanta. He don’t hardly call. I guess he forgot how to write, and ain’t sent nary a birthday card and not a single solitary Christmas present in the last three years that I know of. I ain’t heard her mention nothing about no surprise checks either—not that she need ’em—but that ain’t the point. She handled this all wrong. If a man ain’t gon’ be there for his kids then he should at least help pay for ’em. It’s the reason we got so many juvenile delinquents and criminals and gangs running through our neighborhoods. Where was they damn daddies when they needed one? Mamas can’t do everything.