This was hard stuff for a little girl, and I felt so alone—but it wasn’t ever his fault. We both needed things we didn’t know how to give. I believe deep down my father understood why I had to delve into my music and break away from my family—it was my survival, my identity, my reason to exist. I apologized for not coming to him sooner. “I didn’t know where to be,” I confessed, “I didn’t know who to listen to. I didn’t know if you cared.”
Father, thanks for reaching out and lovingly
Saying that you’ve always been proud of me
I needed to feel that so desperately
—“Sunflowers for Alfred Roy”
My father did not want to perish in a hospital. We had to rush to get him to his girlfriend Jean’s house, so he could live out his final days in a familiar and comfortable environment. My nephew Shawn was there to support me and help me prepare. We went to his house to gather some personal effects. I was struck by the gray dinginess of my father’s place. It wasn’t a mess, but it was a distinct departure from the lined-up, spit-shined quality I associated with him. I guess it’s hard to keep up such a high standard of orderliness as you get older and weaker.
Seeing how the tight structure of his space had softened made the prospect of his deterioration all the more real to me. As we were going through things around my father’s house, I discovered a bundle of newspaper and magazine clippings. I sifted through them and realized that every single one was about me—all stories of my success and accolades. He had written little notes in the margins, underlined and circled different bits he liked. I had no idea he had been keeping up with me from afar. I had no idea he cared about my career. Above all, I had no idea that he was proud of me. My eyes welled with tears. That bundle of paper scraps was more validating than all my awards and Quincy Jones’s combined.
My aunties, my cousin Vinny, Shawn, and I installed a hospital bed and other amenities in the living room of his girlfriend’s house to make his space as comfortable and homey as possible. As the cancer spread and his medication took more control, his desires began to disappear, and I didn’t want our memories to vanish with them. I did little things. I cooked his white clam sauce just so he could smell it, so he could smell us and remember our Sundays together. To keep us connected to my happiest time, I still make my father’s linguine and white clam sauce every Christmas Eve.
His dying wish was that my ex-sister Alison and I would speak again. He didn’t know the depths of the hell we’d been through; he didn’t know there were ashes where a fragile sisterhood had once stood. Yet, for a limited time, we were able to be in the same room, for him. Perhaps it was made possible by the distraction of the constant traffic of doctors and other family members. Out of respect for my father, people kept their drama tucked in. The only time things came close to tension was when my ex-brother Morgan came to the hospital. Our father refused to see him; the pain they triggered in and caused each other in this life was too dense to unpack, even at the end. Our father had grown weak and visibly smaller by this point, and as their issues were primarily about power, strength, and masculinity, I believe our father didn’t want to be seen by Morgan in such a state of vulnerability. Father and son could not find peace on this earth, but perhaps God the Father can do it for them, one day.
Now you’re shining like a sunflower up in the sky, way up high
—“Sunflowers for Alfred Roy”
Toward the very end my father could no longer speak, but he was still practicing restraint. For his pain meds, he’d hold up one finger, signaling he only wanted to take one milligram. Even on his deathbed he was afraid of addiction, afraid of losing control.
He was more conflicted about religion and faith. Sitting next to him on the edge of the bed, I began reading the Bible to him, which he made clear he did not welcome. His childhood had been steeped in church, but his life was filled with the contradictions of the teachings of the Pentecostal Church and Catholicism.
He made no requests regarding the tradition of the ceremony for his funeral. He had continued to attend the Unitarian Universalist fellowship for so many years that out of respect for his feeling accepted by the unconventional congregation, the funeral was held at the fellowship. But I was determined to bring church to the service. He was too often unwelcomed in his life because he was the only Black man in too many places, so I was determined he would not be the only Black person present when we saw him out of this life. He was to have a spiritual send-off. I transformed the church into a glorious garden of sunflowers (which I later re-created in the “Through the Rain” video). My friend the gifted and talented Melonie Daniels, Tots, and I banded together and brought in a full, magnificent gospel choir. I wanted my father’s spirit to ride up on the soaring sound that only a gospel choir can deliver. In their majestic
