The gloves he wore rest on the steps of the front porch, near the potted tomatoes. Both porch chairs are empty now, no wire-rimmed glasses discarded on the kitchen table, no major chords sounding from old school jazz, or post-it notes spread around the house with his scribbled handwriting. How strange it is, a person who was once here, gone.

I always do this. I always stand outside my front door for too long, collecting my thoughts and staring at the screen door before I see my mama. I see a fragment of myself reflected on the screen. My black polo is wrinkled and my khaki shorts are partially faded from years of wear and tear. My brown eyes are no longer welled with tears, and my afro is picked out evenly with no minor injuries. There's nothing out of the ordinary for her to notice. If she sees that I'm worried, she'll worry. I thought that as time passed, grieving would be easier. Then three years went by and nothing changed.

It's worse on this day, May 12th. The anniversary of his death. Today I won't look mama in the eyes. I'll just get something to drink and tell her how my day's been. Today was the last day of school but I'm not excited, instead, I feel numb and exhausted.

The creaky old door is the welcome I receive when entering my house, but I don't get the luxury of air conditioning, just a few plastic fans blowing hot air around the living room. I hear mama in the kitchen and I pray to God that she's not frying anything for dinner.

"Martin, come here," mama shouts from the kitchen, even though I'm only a few inches away from her.

Our house is small, to say the least. It's just my mama and me these days. Three small bedrooms and one bathroom with gray tiled flooring that is cracked in multiple places. He never got to finish fixing it. A kitchen that I practically live in, a living room that has white carpet, and a white sofa, that my mama forbids anyone but adults to sit on. What's the point right? She says the point is that it's her house and her rules, anytime I bring it up.

"Yes, mama?" I mumble as I walk straight to the fridge and grab the pitcher of lemonade, placing it on the counter. I feel her gaze on me and I know what she is going to ask before she does. How was school?

"How was school?" she ask.

"Fine," I say. Then she'll say, are you mad about something? Knowing that I am either just fine or not going to tell her the truth anyway.

"You mad about something?"

"No mama, I'm just really tired. Maybe the heat is getting to me."

"Boy, it's summer in Baton Rouge. If you aren't used to it by now, I don't know what to tell you. I thought you'd be happy with it being your last day and all." She doesn't bring up the date and I know that she's trying to ease into conversation while over-analyzing my responses.

"Nothing's wrong. It's just another summer. Plus, my teacher gave us a story to read over break, so I'll be busy," I say. She gives me a look as if she doesn't believe the busy part.

"What's the story?" she asks.

"It's by Langston Hughes. It's called, Thank you, Ma'am," I say, unamused and she noticed.

"Oh, he's a famous writer."

I nod.

"It'll be good for you to get into the habit of reading. You'll learn to appreciate it." I shrug and pour the lemonade into a cup, gulping it down in seconds.

"Well, before you get too busy, run to the corner store for me and get some cornmeal and a pound of catfish," she says, handing me a twenty-dollar bill.

"Mama, are you frying food again? It's too hot," I say.

"Martin, just do as you're told," she says. Her tone is stern and unwavering.

"Yes, ma'am." I learned a long time ago that talking back is not an option.

Once I'm outside I pick my bike up from off the driveway pavement, sit on top of the seat, and I start pedaling toward the store. I can't wait until I've saved up enough to get a car. I don't turn sixteen for another four months though, so that'll have to wait a while. My mama says that I should stop trying to grow up so fast and take a look around, now and then. What does she want me to see? There's nothing but this neighborhood. Sometimes, I feel that I'm outgrowing it. But in one way or another, I'm always drawn back in.

As I glide past them, Pecan tree branches rustle from the light breeze. I tilt my head down to look at the sidewalk's cracks. Some pieces are decorated with chalk from the children on the block. Other spots are smooth and some are so bumping that my bike shakes as a result. I look up and turn my focus on the houses. No matter how similar each house appears there are always signs about each specific individual lingering, giving away small details about them. Many of the houses are embodiments of families, broken or not.

Those are the houses with tricycles and basketballs stuck underneath car bumpers. The yard is always cut and the younger kids tend to gravitate to these houses for small gatherings. Other homes are excluded and those are the neighbors who might give you a wave if you happen to pass by when they're outside. They don't usually have families and tend to keep to themselves. Now, the best neighbors are the elders, who showered us, kids, with candy and sweet tea but won't stand for poor manners. They'll yell at you like you're their child, and tell on you if you mess up because they care. Oftentimes they are gardeners that indulge in being alone and others are constantly sitting on the porch, watching events unravel like a soap opera. Remembering everything and gossiping about it later, at an evening church service.

I know I don't live in the best neighborhood, but I sure like the people. He used to tell me stories about the people on this block, from way back when. His crazy hair days he'd say. When he wore jury curls and his afro was massive. He thought that he was the shit. I remember pictures of Malcolm X and Nelson Mandela hanging in the living room before mama took them down and his old record player that I could never touch like my mama's white sofa. He raised me the way my daddy should have.

Even after grandma died he said that he'd keep living just like he always had, there just wasn't the same jump in his step or light in his eyes and toward the end of his time on earth, he moved in with mama and me. I distinctly remember the time that he taught me how to ride my bike, it's something I won't forget.

"Martin, you can't expect to be perfect after a few weeks of practice," he said while he picked up the bike that I pushed to the ground. Both of my knees were scraped. I had a bruise on my back and all over my legs. At that point, I had given up.

"Grandpa, I don't want to learn how to ride anymore," I said before I tried to walk back into the house.

"The house is off-limits. You stay out here with me until you learn that failure doesn't mean defeat," he said.

"But that's exactly what it means," I said.

"Martin, I'm not letting you go inside. Now, you get back on that bike and try again, until I tell you to stop. You're going to learn."

"Grand...."

"Stop the whining and excuses and get back on the bike. I'm right behind you. If you fall again, take a break and then get back on," he said.

I rolled my eyes but did what I was told. Mama always said that I do it when grandpa tells me to do something. I took the bike from his hands and started pedaling again. This time I kept going with him following right behind me, hands gripping the edges of the seat to keep me balanced.

Some of my favorite moments with him were the simplest. Nothing overly glorified or exaggerated but things that only a family member or close friend would notice. Like, when he sat on the porch on days like this. Amidst the heavy heat of the summer and misquotes that were in abundance. He made a sweet pecan brittle with an ancient recipe that his great-grandmother had passed down to the family. Or when he started to lose his memory and had to write down everything from his grocery list, to where he left his socks the night before.

A few blocks away from my house I see them. Always on the sidewalk or the curb, Jordan's spotless or Timberlands laced in loose knots, patches of sweat appearing on their clothing, popsicles in hand, and gathered in a small huddle. They are my friends. They will treat me like they always do and I'm relieved that at least it won't be awkward around them. Today, like every other day, Marcus is sitting on the sidewalk, with his curly hair lying in heaps on his head. He's wearing a tie-dye T-shirt, like most days but this one is in different shades of blue. His elbows are resting on his knees and by the look of his cheeks, he isn't enjoying the weather either. Beside him is Chris, biting on the last piece of his Popsicle, while he attempts to wave at me. He's wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a tucked-in short-sleeved button-down like he just left school and decided to keep on his uniform. Solange is sitting beside him. Her thick, tightly curled hair stands out as the sun shines over it. She's wearing a purple romper, decorated at the hem, with the outline of birds, in white lace. She gives me a small grin and stands up with a bare Popsicle stick in hand.

"I called you a few minutes ago," Marcus says after seeing me approach the group and slide his phone into his pocket. I press hard on my bike brakes to stop for a few minutes. Sweat dripped down my face.

"You know he never answers the phone," Solange says as she throws her stick away.

"Where are you headed?" Chris asks while trailing behind Solange and also throwing away his stick.

"The store, so I don't have a lot of time to hang out tonight," I say and start to pedal forward wanting to get to the store as quickly as possible. I'm just not in a good mood.

"Great we'll go with you," Solange says. Including herself in my affairs is expected. I don't know if she annoys me because I'm a year older than her or because she knows everything. The boys nod in agreement as they always do when Solange takes control. Chris and Marcus are quite close and it's mostly because they live next door to each other, about two blocks away from Solange and me. They're both thirteen but they're nothing alike otherwise.

"Don't you guys have something better to do? You'll slow me down." I say. I'm teasing them but a piece of me is worried that my sadness will show. Even so, every time we're all together I feel at ease. Nearly every time we all hang out I want the night to slow down just so that I can linger outside for a bit longer.

They're my escape.

End of Part 1