REMEMBERING MOMMY

Nine years ago today, my Mom died. I still find it difficult to wrap my mind around the thought. 

I can't phone her. 

It's so weird. 

I can still hear her voice. Whether it was public-speaking-proper, or tinged with a little Louisiana drawl as she chatted on the phone with friends, it was wonderful in its charm and rhythm. She wasn’t a screamer, but her raised voice was firm. I can still hear her sharp, “Ah. Young people?” as she brought her English classes to order.

Mommy always said, 'Know when to turn it on and when to turn it off."

I miss her. 

I encounter people in public being  disrespectful to their mothers, and I transform into Supergirl--confronting ungrateful, out-of-control, smart-mouthed brats (young and old) one department or grocery store at a time. I know it isn't, but in the moment, somehow, I feel it IS my business. I don't know how many people I've scolded in stores over the last 9 years. "Excuse me. You have your mom right here with you. I would give anything to be able to shop with my Mom today. If I want to visit MY mom, I have to go to Ft. Lincoln Cemetery." 

I don't know how many stunned, ashamed, and even grateful faces I've walked away from, with the hopes that they'd get it. 

You only get one mom. There may be many "play" moms, godmothers, aunts, and even teachers, but only one mom. Treat her right.

For whatever one's mom may be, or may have been, the fact is, you’re here. That, alone, deserves some consideration and respect.

I go through what has become a twice-yearly ritual. 

I look at photographs--no I gaze at them--especially the ones where it seems as if she's looking directly at me. 

I look at the video clip from the "Persuaded: Live in Washington" recording that was filmed at Jericho City of Praise. In a few brief scenes, there's Mommy, happily clapping away on 1 and 3. 

I try to remember things she said. I reach out to my sisters and Dad. 

I read messages from her former students. 

I think about the years she spent teaching for D.C. Public Schools, first at Birney Elementary, then H.D. Woodson, then P. R. Harris Educational Center (formerly Friendship).

I look in the mirror, and see more, and more, then and more of her face. 

I enjoy some popcorn-- prepared the old-fashioned way. (Mommy LOVED popcorn).

Today, I took a virtual walk down Addis Lane, in Addis Louisiana, courtesy of Google maps.

Although I can't erase from my mind the sight of the emergency room staff working frantically to save her, each year I feel more empowered. I saw what no child--even an adult child--should see, but I thank God for the time Mommy did have on Earth. 

At birth, she was a preemie, and wasn't expected to live at all. I remember my Auntee Lillian retelling the story and smile. 

Mommy was extraordinary. In every dream I've had since she died where Mommy is featured, she is beautiful, carefree, happy, fit, and very busy with her wonderful life.

Mommy died at Washington Hospital Center. I often wonder what happened between the time we left her room on the night of February 3 around 10 PM, and the wee hours of the morning of February 4th. 

I guess I'll never really know. 

One of the last things she said to me, after I brushed her hair and placed it in one French braid, was "Be happy".

I hate cancer. Every time I hear "colon cancer", "pulmonary embolism" or "coumadin" I cringe. 

Every time I hear of strides in treatment, I smile.

I miss my Mommy. I can only imagine what a spry, stylish, elegant senior citizen she would have been.