I come to this park everyday- sometimes twice. In the early morning, I walk/jog around the track that surrounds the Pop Warner football field. With my headphones tightly fitted on my head, I listen to my playlist of Mos Def, Jill Scott and Kanye West on my MP3 player. I walk a lap. I jog a lap. I break a sweat. I cool down. The sun comes out. I break a new sweat as I politely pass the elderly Alabamians enjoying their daily stroll with GOD. Maybe I should walk with Him too, instead of blaring hip hop into my ears. But like Kanye West said, "I wanna talk to GOD, but I'm afraid." So I drown His voice, my thoughts and my pain in the digital melodies that play continuously.

By the eighth lap, I am tired and breathing heavily. Maybe I need ot leave these Newports alone. The goal is exhaustion, so that my body becomes too fatigued to house my emotional grief. Somehow, gasping for oxygen overrides the aching in my heart. Thankfully, sweat exuding from every pore replaces the tears trickling from my eyes. Or maybe they just get lost in the perspiration on my face. I stop. I maintain a slow pace to bring down my heart rate. The rapid to moderate to normal beating is evidence that my heart is working instead of breaking. By now, the sun has made its presence known. The elderly people have retreated to their air conditioned homes. I do the same.

Later in the afternoon, I return. I find a parkbench nestled in between the massive trees. The shade is cooler now. I try to sit near the playground. There are a few sets of parents. They look about my age: still young, but with a hint of life's lessons still fresh in their eyes. They play with their children who frolic carefree throughout the swings and slides. Some parents push their offspring in strollers, while others revel in their child's attempt to master the monkey bars. I think about her. Our daughter. She would be approaching her seventh month by now. Undoubtedly, she would be attempting to escape the stroller in order to crawl into the sandbox. I would imagine she'd have her mother's determination.

As the kids dance, laugh and play- my mind begins to conjure up an image of her. Our daughter. She will never feel the soft, Southern breeze the grazes my cheek. I can see her so clearly: a head full of curly hair. Her mother's deep ebony eyes. My perfectly arched eyebrows. Her own blend of caramel skin derived from my chocolate and her mother's butterscotch complexion. Chunky, giggling and wiggling...I see her. She's wearing a purple shirt with "I Love My Daddy" in red letters. Her shorts are lavender and packed with her diaper. The vision becomes blurred from the fluid of my tears. I'm crying again. I miss her. I miss her mother. I love them both more than I have loved anything and anyone in this world.

The sun has set. The families in the park have retreated to their happy homes. I do the same.

Except alone.

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