by WC Child
It had been really busy at work and I welcomed the freedom of the weekend. I needed time to decompress. The stack of unopened mail and the neglected household chores made my list of priorities. I cleaned the house, top to bottom, but ran out of inspiration when it came to the mail. I sorted through the pile and determined which items could wait. I couldn’t decide in which pile the last itemed belonged. It appeared someone had taken the time to personally address the letter. The script seemed vaguely familiar. I thought it odd that the letter had no sender listed. My sense of urgency regarding its content classified it as just another piece of junk mail. It remained in the growing unopened pile for several more days.
Finally, I got around to opening the last of the junk mail. The plain white envelope gave no indication of the darkness it would unleash. I looked quizzically at the paper, as if the words were written in some foreign language. It took a moment for me to realize what I was looking at. A translator whispered into my ear the name of the dearly departed. What I held in my hand was the pronouncement of the end of my Big Mama’s life. I was stunned beyond belief by the news. I struggled to continue to breathe. The news had been as unexpected and life-changing as the loss of my love child. I did not want to accept either truth, but denial would change nothing. I had no choice but to surrender to the fact that Big Mama was gone forever. Opening a package that contained Big Mama’s obituary was the last thing I expected on such a routine, non-eventful day.
I held the end of life announcement close to my chest and allowed the news to rest in my soul. Every particle of my being rebuked the notion to acknowledge this loss, hoping that avoidance would change the outcome. I wanted to stay in factual limbo so the guilt wouldn't have a place to nest. My heart was in such distress. Tears ran rampant and amassed in the crevice of my neck. I felt helpless and hopeless. I was forced to comprehend the brevity of life.
Bitter was the taste of death’s victory. It forced its portions upon me and like it or not, I had to swallow. Just like the liver dinners Big Mama made me eat because they were supposed to be good for me, I had no voice in this situation either. I had to wash the bitter taste down with tears and digest it in its entirety. Even though we all will have a seat at the table, we are never really prepared for the meal. Death’s table is always set, waiting for the guest of honor to arrive, yet we often believe the party will never be at our house, until it is. What added to my indigestion was the guilt that came along with the meal. I had cut off communication with Big Mama and treated her like I didn’t love her. I realized that even in her last days, she tried to prepare me for this juncture in life. Maybe she knew her end was near and wanted to ensure I found the path back to my mother. Had this been the life change she spoke about? I would never know for certain. Given the outcome, that logic prevailed. I wondered if she had been trying to prepare me for what I never acknowledged as a possibility…life without her being there Instead of embracing her reconciliation aspirations for me, I rejected those motives, and her, with indifference. She represented the good I had a hard time believing existed in the world and I treated her as if she didn’t matter. What did that say about me as a person? Who was this person that I had become? That person bore no resemblance to the child that had been taught decency and values by her parents and grandparents. It was disgraceful how I honored their sacrifice.
As I thought about what had led to these unexpected consequences, I regretted what my foolish antics caused me to forfeit. I didn't even get to say goodbye because my heart had been full of pride and arrogance. I had pawned our relationship for a sense of control and I would be unable to redeem the ticket. I had taken her presence for granted. I thought there would be time to mend the rift between us. The last conversation had been so bad. I lashed out at her for doing what she always did. She spoke the truth I didn’t want to hear. In return, I chose to abandon the one person who had always been there for me through the most difficult times in my life. I essentially told her I didn’t want to speak to her again. I got my wish. I would never be able to hear her voice or see her face again; the earth reclaimed its elements more than a week ago.
Even though I recognized the futility of my actions, I ran to the phone with the announcement in hand. Through blurred vision I managed to dial the familiar number that connected me to my family. The operator’s declaration that the number was no longer in service abruptly shifted me back to reality. The weight of the phone suddenly multiplied and my fingers had to just let go. The phone landed on the kitchen floor. My body and the life tribute quickly followed. Only one of the three survived the descent unbroken. It wasn't my physical body that was broken, it was my heart. Hoping that somehow she could hear me, I repeatedly said the words “I’m sorry.” I remained on the floor at the point of impact and begged Big Mama for her forgiveness.
Across the floor lay the obituary that chronicled Big Mama's life. It had not moved from the spot where it landed earlier. I wanted to show my anger toward that evil piece of paper. I knew that it wasn’t the paper’s fault. It would have been the scapegoat I wanted to punish. Inevitably, the more I considered my options, the more valuable that paper became. I needed to appreciate the end of life announcement for the link it provided to Big Mama. Without it, the last memories of Big Mama would have to be the unnecessarily cruel words I said to her and the phone calls from her that went unanswered.
Because I missed the ceremony, I was left to imagine all the wonderful things that would have been said about Big Mama’s life and the beauty of her existence. My eyes studied all segments of the tribute. I tried to commit to memory all relevant facts as I read the story of her life. Although beautifully written, the decorated sheet of paper did not represent the fullness of her life. It was the exclamation point at the end of her life's journey. All it could do was hit on the orchestrated highlights others wanted to include as a way to pay homage to our loved one. It would become a token and final memory others would take with them as a comforting souvenir. I scanned the list of loved ones selfishly looking for my name. It wasn’t there. How could that be? How could the authors of this tribute have failed to acknowledge me and the special relationship we shared? Grandmother may have been her title, but mother had been her role in my life. How had I been grouped into the generic category of “grandchildren and host of family and friends”? Had I been there with my family, things would have been written differently, but the point was, I was not there. I had been home, trying to punish her for speaking her mind. I had forfeited the right to object to any decisions others made.
I remained engrossed in the contents of the tribute. No word was trivialized. After I viewed the sum of her life’s work as it was expressed through the written words of others, I felt I had been in the presence of my grandmother. I observed unseen family photos that included images of my father as a child and grainy photos of several branches of our family tree. Through those photos, I got a glimpse into portions of my history and snippets of the life she knew before time and circumstances intervened. I was surprised and overjoyed by the inclusion of my graduation photo in the tribute. Remembering the joy of that day brought some badly needed comfort.
When the last word was absorbed and each picture had been reviewed several times, sadness began to creep in again. I knew that getting to the end of the inside pages meant there would be nothing left to do but close up the memorialized evidence of Big Mama’s life and prepare to stow it away with my other highly regarded items. When I folded the paper over, I noticed there were more aspects of the tribute on the back. Normally, the back of these documents was blank, except for the customary identity of the officiant. But to my surprise, there was a poem, centered under a picture of my grandparents. After I read it, I was sure it was a message from Big Mama to me.
Unspoken Words
When there are no more words,
Our love still speaks,
Ours souls are free,
Our troubles have ceased.
When there are no more words,
Our memories will stay,
In the hearts of our loved ones,
In the recounting of our days.
When there are no more words,
No matter what you go through,
Know that we've just gone ahead,
We'll be there to welcome you.
When there are no more words,
And we feel so far away,
Let our love comfort you,
Today, Tomorrow, Always.
Once again, the depth of her love humbled me. I keeled over into a heap of sorrow and cried rivers of tears that left puddles of release and regrets. The cold floor was unwelcoming, but I stretched out on it anyway, as if it had arms to hold me. I tried to manufacture comfort from a non-feeling inanimate object. But none came. I began to metaphorically compare the floor with my relationship with Big Mama. Why is it that we never notice the floor as anything other than something to walk on? Closer observation proves it is much more than that. It is the foundation that gives you support no matter how often you walk all over it. Sometimes it creaks and makes noise when the load gets a bit too heavy. Once the pressure is released, it bounces back and offers support, time and time again. Sometimes the dirt that is brought in on the floor can’t be seen until it piles up or is viewed at eye level. The messes made on it are not always easily cleaned up. In my time of distress, the kitchen floor became the repository for my anguish. I shared my sorrow and tears with it until sleep manifested an escape. I lay there in the symbolic bosom of Big Mama until the morning light signaled that the worst day of my life was finally over.
Chapter 32
The Journey Home
I was exhausted and groggy when my eyes opened the next day and my surroundings became recognizable. The outside world continued to change. My world stood still. I heard and despised the joyful voices of nature. I deemed it insulting that an inconsiderate bird sat on my windowsill and disturbed the silence with its incessant chirping. How I wished it would move on since there were no worms living that far above ground. Mentally, I wanted to throw the first thing I could find at that noisy intruder, but I lacked the physical energy to move beyond where I laid. I was forced to endure the bird’s offering until it completed its morning opus and mercifully flew away.
The events of yesterday continued to torment me. Unaware of any concept of time, I remained prostrate in the middle of my floor, trapped in the sorrow of yesterday. I struggled to find my mental posture. I was so ashamed of myself. I allowed those feelings to pull me deeper into despair. How could I move forward with the guilt noose pulling on my neck? No matter which way I turned, it choked me and I gagged from the pressure. I didn’t know when and where I would find peace again. I needed someone to hold me and tell me everything would get better soon. Usually that was Big Mama's role. I didn’t know who would be there for me now. My mother had reached out to me several times after being released from prison, but I rejected her. I was still so angry. My conflicted mind caused there to be no one to help me through the grieving process. Others had started their mission to recovery. I was sure no one wanted to start over with the painful journey on my behalf. I was forced to travel that path alone.
The confines of my apartment were suffocating me. I needed some fresh air. I had been recycling the pain and misery of my discovery for days. I continued to allow each breath to infect me with regret. I began to think about the trips to Big Mama’s house with my father and the freedom I experienced during those times. I habitually rolled down the window and stuck my arm out. I liked to feel the coolness of the wind fill up my hand. Its invisible presence always pushed my hand backward. I could never grasp a handful of air no matter how hard I tried. That exercise in futility served no practical purpose, but it allowed me to focus on something simple and pure for as long as I remained mesmerized by the momentary attempts of success. I desperately needed to connect with someone right now. Thoughts of the trips with my father were enough to move me from that apartment to the open road.
Without a conscious thought of direction, I started driving and ended up at the old country house. I sat in the car for a while and took in all the sights, sounds and connections that surrounded me at that most special place. Instinctively, I found my way back home. I returned to the place where I found myself and lost pieces of myself. Right then, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I needed to feel grounded and attached to my roots; to feel close to Big Mama again. It was my last option for redemption.
Although it showed signs of age, the house stood proud and strong; just like the woman who had been its matriarch for as long as I could remember. As I walked up the steps and onto the porch landing, the sounds of the wooden boards seemed to welcome me. I paused and partook of one of my most favorite spots in the world. I couldn’t ignore the urge to sit in the porch swing. That swing had been our special bonding place. Both laughter and sadness congregated there. I was amazed it was still there and was hesitant to lower my body onto it. The creaky sound it made greeted me as it had so many times before. Slowly I relaxed the full weight of my body onto my old friend and gently pushed backward. With the weight of all the guilt I carried, I expected the swing to revolt, but it didn’t. It allowed me to experience its gifts of momentary freedom as I relaxed and remembered all the love that was shared while we sat on that swing.
The gentle wind blew and stirred up bygone memories from dark places in my mind that I buried a lifetime ago. I tried hard not to remember that day, but the parallels of this moment intermingled with those from my past. Reality became cloaked with retrospection. I reached to wipe the phantom blood from my scraped knee. I felt a scar instead. I felt the haunting sensation of Big Mama’s touch. It was joined by the echoes of familiar humming sounds that seemed to source its strength from the breeze. I repositioned myself on the swing, closed my eyes and nestled into her arms.
My life had gone through many seasons since then, but suddenly I was thirteen again. I was a child victim of abuse and unfortunate circumstances. I was neither equipped nor prepared for such an adult situation. I didn't know the value of a life or how the cruel thoughts and words of a child could plague me as an adult. At times I felt I was being punished for not valuing my first child, by being unable to have another one. I remembered how I hated that unborn child. I often hoped it would die, and it did. What kind of person did that make me? I thought I would have been happy when it died, but I had been conflicted by the outcome. It was innocent and I had been selfish and afraid. I could have sat there for hours enjoying the love I felt embedded in the swing, but I thought my peace awaited me on the inside of the house.
I made my way to the front door as naturally as I had done for so many years. I stood at the front door for a moment with the door knob in my hand and my eyes closed. I didn’t know if I would truly feel welcome in the place where I came to experience restoration. Just as that thought finished, I heard in my mind the familiar voice of Big Mama telling me to wipe my feet off before coming into the house. I smiled as somewhere in time I heard myself say "Yes, ma’am". I pushed open the weather-beaten door that guarded the entrance to my safe haven. Memories flooded my mind like the waters of Katrina. I closed my eyes and allowed numbness to be replaced by genuine feeling. I recalled the sounds and voices of those who took me in and loved me thru some of the most difficult times in my life.
Although the place was completely empty, I beheld all the things that made that house a home. I saw pictures of family, the table where we had Sunday dinner, the rocking chair where I use to cuddle with Big Mama, the sofa where I had my phone calls from my mother. I heard the shushing sound she made when I disturbed her while she watched her “stories”, the chiming of the mantle clock and the crackling sound of the wood burning in the fireplace. My nose was treated to the smells of my grandfather's pipe, biscuits and molasses, beans and cornbread, fried chicken, bacon, cakes and pies and Folger's coffee. I made my way through all corners of the room, where real living actually occurred, to the
staircase, avoiding furniture that blocked my path, as if it were still there. On my way up the stairs I envisioned the photos along the bannister wall. I allowed my fingers to rub the holes left behind from where our family history was displayed.
The upstairs unearthed its own treasure trove of memories. I couldn't help but smile as I stood in the hallway that had been my gateway to many informational reconnaissance missions. I couldn't imagine my punishment had I ever been captured while eavesdropping into grown folks’ business. Waves of conflicting emotions surrounded me while I stood in the door to my old bedroom. I began to see myself in stages; the innocent child who spent many carefree summers in that room; the abandoned child that longed for her mother for far too many years, the broken woman/child that had been an expectant mother without clearly understanding the ramifications of someone else's decisions, the teenager who had discovered the many layers of love, the awakening of bodily desires, the finite notion of forever, the joy and pain of love and the healing that comes with time and distance.