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Introduction of Mine.
There is something magical about the romantic mishaps that originate in California. It is, like most never actually say, magical. I knew from the very first Under 9 Swim team meet in San Fran that if I were ever going to be anybody’s post pregnancy, glass house dwelling, cooking all day, wife-it would be for the one and only boy, or man of my dreams, Asher Jay Miller.
Picture this: the first day we met was on a Valentine’s Day swim meet which involved my own, not so much of a children person, Aunt Lydia, emotional type woman, in a more understanding term my grandmother or Nana Harp, who basically embarrassed the crap out of me as she dragged me passed the rows of families in our swim schools natatorium screaming bloody murder to all the other kids who might beat me at first place. One of these families were the Millers and one of the children belonging to the group of kids she didn’t exactly want me to lose to was Asher Jay Miller. By then he wasn’t something to write home about, or anywhere for that matter, stuck in tight, blood circulation cutting, blue speedos that matched his all American flag themed swim cap, which I have to admit beat my full black and white swim suit, with doe like blue-green eyes that, at the time, did show some great potential, he was already apologizing in his own way for beating me with a heart shaped lollipop I recognized from his dragon fly step mother’s stall in the hallway. But this was not why I fell in love with him in the first place. This is more of a great example of how we were destined to be together. That day, on the Valentine’s meet, Asher and I sadly finished at the same time and of course that was first. My grandmother was ashamed, being from Africa made her a Devishly proud woman when it came to sports and her own daughter, my late mother, winning 18 times in a row didn’t help the matter at all. At the end of the day, Nana Harp met her crippling match the beautiful but dragon like step mother of Asher, Mrs. Diane Miller, and get this? They basically became the nearest witch like best friends.
To be honest with you, I did not mind this at all. From that horrid and embarrassing day, us fellow Harp’s were always at the Miller mansion for Sunday brunch, Saturday snack day and Friday movie night. When my father was away on business, which was pretty often, and Nana Harp was running a successful business consultancy agency, I used to watch Asher and his step brother play basketball together as I waited to be picked up or driven home by one of their parents. On weekends I would stay in their house when Nana and Diane were having a spa weekend and when I just didn’t feel like going home to an empty house without my father and without my mother, I would seek safe harbor in the Miller mansion until the moon was out and the sun was done for the day.
This went on for as long as I could remember even though I went to a private all girl school which taught sacredness and holiness and the Miller boys attended a full on High school version of Harvard University far away from my own madness, our families somehow managed to stay close because of the two most evil like women I had ever met. This went on for as long as I could remember until Nana Harp passed away in her sleep.
It was a shock to me, to my father, to everybody around. She was the last person on earth I thought was capable of dying. She was also the last person on earth I had wanted to ever die. I was only 16, hormonal, lonely and very overwhelmed. My father was away and either way he was not a Harp, I was the last family she had and because of this I had a lot on my plate. Her company was now half mine, her house was completely mine, her things her cars and her clothes were all given to me and I didn’t know what to do about it. The worst part was that her funeral responsibility was mine, also, and I had no idea what was next when it came to basically everything. I decided to run to the only person that could help me and as afraid as I was to ask her big headed ego for help, she was literally the only person I had left to run to.
Diane and I worked hard to make her funeral huge. She was, after all, a successful African business woman who moved to live the American dream. She married the man of her dreams, the white Knight or Prince, whichever you prefer, and had a beautiful daughter who was the famous swim champion in the state of California. Fellow black women were invited to respect her, understanding colored daughters came to mourn her and the family from my grandfather’s side, who had ex communicated him for marrying an African woman, had been seated at the back of the church probably wondering why they had never been there for her all along. But I sat in the front of the Catholic Church, with her now ex best friend, her husband and her two sons, and she wasn’t so much of a demon anymore and probably never was, and I remember thinking throughout the whole funeral, I wish you were here to scold me for holding onto a boy’s hand even though it doesn’t even belong to Asher Jay Miller.