TUESDAY THOUGHTS: EVERY FEBRUARY FOURTH

On this day in 2003, my Mom died. 

I still find it difficult to wrap my mind around the thought. 

I can't phone her. 

It's so weird, but 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 a wonderful display of proud, educated, southern Black girl magic.

 

Mommy always said, “Always put your best foot forward. Know when to turn it on and when to turn it off.” She knew how to navigate any environment.

Every now and then, I encounter people 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‘s a little dangerous, and 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 confronted over the last 17 years. "Excuse me. You have your mom with you. You can talk to her, yet you choose to talk like THAT? I would give anything to be able to shop with my Mom. If I want to visit MY mom, I have to go to Ft. Lincoln Cemetery." 

I don't know how many stunned and ashamed faces I've walked away from, hoping 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. 

For whatever one's mom may be, or may have been, the fact is, she chose to go through with the delivery. That, alone, deserves much respect, (according to the person who terrified a very pregnant me when she said, “Going into labor is about as close to dying as you’re gonna get.”)

I go through what has become a yearly ritual. 

I can’t sleep, or a restless the night of February 3rd. 

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 viral, praise break clip from "Persuaded: Live in Washington" filmed at Jericho City of Praise. In a few, brief scenes, there's Mommy, smiling, and un-apologetically clapping away on 1 and 3. 

I try to remember things that she said. 

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, AND more of her face in mine. 

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

I take a virtual trip to Addis, Louisiana, courtesy of YouTube or Google maps.

Although I can't erase from my mind the sight of the Washington Hospital Center emergency room staff working frantically to save her from the pulmonary embolism that claimed her life, each year I do feel a little more empowered. 

I was alone that morning, and saw what no child--not even an adult child--should see, but I thank God for the time Mommy DID have on Earth.

 

She 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.

1936–2003. 

Someone said it's what happens during the dash that matters most. That she even lived as long as she did was a miracle. Mommy was a preemie. I still remember how dramatically my Auntee Lillian described her birth. The midwife had given her up because she weighed only 1lb., 1 ounce. 

"I kept working with her" Auntee said, and then she made a sound. Auntee said she fed her with a medicine dropper, and dressed her in doll's clothes. She said my grandmother was very sick and was fearful of holding her at first. 

That little baby became a remarkable woman, and her positive impact on so many lives is still being felt. 

Miss you, Mommy.

Rest in peace.