By Azia Armstead
By Azia Armstead
The arrangement was for Dad to get us every other weekend. But that didn’t always go as planned. My brother, Niko, and I raced home from the bus stop on Fridays, testing to see which one of us could make it to the apartment first. We’d stuff socks, t-shirts, and pants into Walmart bags we found underneath the kitchen sink. Mom wouldn’t be home from work until later in the afternoon, but now we were old enough to get ourselves ready. On the hard concrete front steps of the apartment we’d sit and wait. Niko was never really excited for weekends with Dad, but I had been counting the days and the hours within them. Often the streetlights would come on before Dad arrived, the wait interrupted. Our necks snapped back to see Mom pulling the front door open to find us still outside. “Get in this house! He ain’t coming,” she’d say, her voice laden with anger and exhaustion. We’d come in to eat, and there was no further discussion.
I held hope and no grudges when it came to my father. When he did come to see us, I’d dash down the stairs and leap into his arms. He’d scoop me up to meet his face and I was blissful; we’d start anew with each reunion.
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