Jamar, 27 Steps

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ByEarl
Twenty-seven steps to cross that stage. I counted them without meaning to, an old habit you fall into when you need your legs to keep moving and your face to stay focused in a space you still feel uncertain in. A handshake, my name half-heard over the mic, a diploma pressed into my hands, bound in leather like something meant to last.

My grandmother always said she’d tan my hide if I ever gave up. She reminded me more than once that being the oldest meant my brother and sister would look to me before they believed what they could do themselves. At twelve, I didn’t realize that was her way of showing love and keeping me safe.

As I walked back down the aisle, I spotted my parents in the crowd. My mother was crying openly. My father stood tall and tried not to, but for a moment he wiped his face quickly, pretending to adjust his glasses. I looked away on purpose. Later, we’d both pretend it never happened. That was how my father maned up when something mattered.

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