Ernest A. Finney, Jr., Smithfield, Virginia boy, my papa, is 86 today. In this first photo he is 35 and I am 9. We are in the middle of the indefatigable summer of 1967. To the camera, he is holding up a Black Power fist of the day and I am holding up the Peace sign of the times (and trying to look mean and impressive as Miss Zora would say). I have hundreds of photos of us but this one is my favorite because it continues to hold us as we were and are. Easy and comfortable with each other. This is my favorite pair of early girlhood pajamas so it must be morning in my mother's house. His cup of black and bitter coffee is not in the frame but I promise you it is steaming up the air somewhere nearby. My arm is draped across his shoulder because that's how I was born — with my arms around him. At least that's how my lucky-to-be-his daughter life has always felt. To be able to reach for him and have him reach back for me all these years has been my pot of gold. The lessons he taught me about kindness and working hard have remained as close as skin. Papa never knew his mother. At his birth the doctor mistakingly left the afterbirth inside of her. Mama Carlene died nine days later. My father has an unspeakable sadness about him on his birthday. I know it's because he starts counting to nine just as soon as his candles are blown out. With my arms good and tight around him we count together. Life is where honey and vinegar both have a home on the tongue.
— Nikky
