Someone who I consider a ‘second mom’ is dying. It may be hours or days, but the prognosis isn’t good. You hope, but that’s for the living. She’s 89. The last of three sisters – one who died suddenly just a few months ago. In poor health – the last few years. And she’s tired. No life-saving measures for her. Leave her peace and dignity.
Which brings the first slight smile I’ve had since my brain tried to wrap around the news.
I was on the Chicago Jazz Tour. Hitting as many spots as possible in a five hour period.
Four martinis (French, two granny greens, and a mango-tini). Great jazz (except at the Hot Spot and Velvet Lounge. Sounded like they weren’t even playing the same song.). Better company, and some awfully cute guys. And then the phone rang. It was my sistah-friend sharing the news.
Suddenly the world seemed askew.
I still laughed. Still listened to jazz. Cracked my infamous jokes. Enjoyed myself.
But the world seemed off-kilter. Somehow.
Life was going on – a lesson I had learned long ago and had to apply too too many times since.
Her life was ebbing.
And my brain couldn’t wrap around it.
I looked at my cousins and forced my smile.
Slowly got quiet, but said nothing except – “I’m tired. It’s been a long week.”
At a moment I so desperately wanted to share my growing pain, I also didn’t want to “ruin” their evening.
So I laughed some more. Quieted down, some more. And couldn’t wait for the evening to end so I could crawl into the “safeness from all evil” of my bed.
You cannot prepare for death.
Life prepares you.
Or maybe it’s old age.
Or maybe …
But you feel tired. Bone weary tired. Soul exhausted. You’re grieving.
But even that feels tired.
So you remember.
The first time I met mom … face it, she was an old $itch. Our pastor decreed “until the first floor is filled, no one sits in the balcony.” Too many of the young kids went upstairs, sat in the back, and clowned. Candy, snickers, good times. Since the parents didn’t control, and the ushers couldn’t, the pastor did. And it worked. It’s much harder to clown when everybody can see you.
Anyway, one Sunday, as a “no nonsense” usher, I had the main door. Service had started and the only seats left were now on the first row. Mom and some of her biddie friends then came in.
Nobody sits on the first row at church unless their so-called position requires it. Deacons, trustees, Mother Board. Front row. Everybody else, another row. Especially women. Gapping thighs in too tight skirts – forget distracting, think nasty.
So mom and the biddies were not happy when I wouldn’t let them go upstairs.
And because she was who she is – an upperclass Negro – she practically, hell she did, demand access to the balcony.
Not past my hips. Puh leeze. I didn’t care a hoot about what she had and who she was. I just knew who she wasn’t – somebody headed to the balcony – and what she wouldn’t get – sympathy from me.
So be off with you.
And she did. To the basement. Sulking. Witching. Good riddance.
And that crazy old woman turned out to be my sistah-friend’s mama. Who made killer lasagna. And never acted less than an upperclass Negro. But you loved it. And I loved her. And I love her.
Cause she’s got a heart more pure than gold.
And a shoulder full of love.
And arms wide and enfolding.
She could still be pissy. Get on your last nerve when she went on and on and on about something you didn’t want to hear or was none of her business.
You got mad at her. Cuz she got on your last nerve when she went on and on and on about something you didn’t want to hear or was none of her business.
You pulled back on the phone calls. So you didn’t have to hear her go on and on and on about something you didn’t want to hear or was none of her business.
But you couldn’t stay away long or too long.
She just loved you too much.
We don’t like death.
It’s painful. Numbing. Too often.
And I’m sorry preachers, I don’t want to hear no “let’s celebrate her homecoming” and “rejoice” two days after folks die. I’m pissed. I’m angry. I want them back. Now that’s a eulogy I’d like to hear.
I’m not angry at God, I’m just angry.
And numb.
I’m at peace with my relationship with moms.
I’m at peace that if she’s tired and ready to go, it’s her choice.
I’m at peace that there were no fronts or falsity in our relationship. A spade was a spade. And we were always both right. And usually wrong. Never giving an inch.
God is not getting a rose to add to his bouquet. Something else you hear in eulogies; either that or “God needed a tenor/alto/soprano for his choir”. The latter only applying when the person could really, and I mean really, sing. Moms couldn’t sing. A note. She didn’t lie about that. So let’s stick with the former – he’s not getting a rose.
God’s getting a thorn. Cuz she was a pain in the butt with her uppercrust ways. Got on your nerves. Made you cut visits/calls short. Made you take your time coming back into her fold.
Yeah, she is a thorn.
But she’s my moms.
And some of the best parts of me are because of her.
Death doesn’t become her.
She doesn’t become death.
She just continues to be, coming to me when I need her, like always before.
* Dora Louise Wells Wilson died ten days later.
