For seven days straight, I’d dreamed of snapping green beans at my Nana’s feet, on the floor in the dining room, up against the wall with a metal strainer cupped in my lap. This crystalized moment, while laborious to some, I dutifully cherished. In this safe space I’d shared the unmentionable thoughts of my childhood. The things I dare not say aloud, already too shameful to think about. Yet, somehow through the wisdom of her years, she saw the tenderness behind my piercing confessions. While my words presented as sharp weapons, I, in fact, was the one who was bleeding internally.
During that brief window of time, whenever green beans were on the menu, I could secretly expose my raw wounds. Her silence served as a salve, temporarily relieving the pain; her gentleness examined the infection, and her intentional words bandaged my ailing existence just enough so I could continue on until green beans were on the menu. There was no alternative, really. Perhaps my heart longed for the simplicity of that time when there was no other way to move but forward.
***
At the funeral home when I arrived to view my mother’s body, I expected that I might break down sobbing, or gasp with a mixture of disbelief and grief. Instead, when I looked at her peaceful body adorned in a radiant red she always professed to be her “best color,” it was as if I was staring at my own self in the mirror.
What a damning day to smile.
Floating like incense clouds behind us in the funeral home were the harmonious chords of Earth Wind and Fire’s, September. In a split second the melodious tunes hallowed around me and seemed to punch me in the gut. I let out an involuntary burst of laughter. My ears were ringing, sibilated by sounds that seemed to be laced with my mother’s rich, buoyant voice. The burst of laughter was simply a chain reaction. The same reaction I had any time my mother paid me any attention.
“Get it, Punkin!” I suddenly heard a voice call out.
In the funeral home, my aunt looked over at me with a sincere gaze of concern, but I hardly noticed. I knew the voice wasn’t real. But I needed this moment, this recess from reality as a parting gift of sorts. I knew I would never hear this voice, so vibrant and vagrant, again. I needed this. Somehow the image of her laying there, coupled with the sounds of EWF, transported me right back to our basement on Bay Street: a party of three—my mom, her record player and Newport 100s. She would sing and smoke and dance for hours. Occasionally I would come down, to relay a message from my grandmother or to make sure she was still alive, or both. That was a long time ago. And she had not walked or stood, much less danced in years.
Her dancing shoes were exchanged for a hospital bed, on display, in the family room where the sofa had been before, like a crucible, a scarlet letter. It seemed a cruel curse that someone, so vivacious and full of life was vexed from the neck down. Immobile. That is, with the exception of her left hand.
Born of a left-handed mother (my grandmother), and bearing two left handed children, my mother always taunted us about our manual dexterity. When I was learning to write, she would scold me, “Use your RIGHT hand. I’m your mother and you listen to ME.” Of course, my grandmother had been teaching me to write as she had taught me just about everything I knew. But I was an obedient child and obliged my mother, mostly to pacify the pseudo authority she clamored for as my biological parent.
And my, how the tables turned. With no other choice following her massive stroke and paralysis on the right side of her body, my mom used her left hand to eat, write, and turn the pages of her King James Bible which provided sprinkles of hope, peace, and respite from the pain she endured daily. The left hand was weak, but steady. The same hand that held mine as the last wisps of air left her lungs two weeks earlier. Now, at 60 she was free again. As free as she had been at 23 when she gave birth to me and then left with reckless abandon.
“You look good, mama,” I said loud enough for everyone in the funeral parlor to hear.
I imagined Granny greeting her at the pearly gates with a divine diva look of approval. And my mom letting the angels know they didn’t have to worry about checking her in for housing because her mama had “a mansion over there.” She would just move in with her mama. I imagined the angels’ puzzled gaze and Jesus, simply nodding approval. Not for my mom’s sake but because my Granny was such an angel herself, she had audience with Him.
***
Back down here on earth I was left to pick up the pieces, as usual. But this time, the texture of my grief was different. When my Nanna passed, I felt helpless. She was my encourager, my safe space. She made me believe that I could fly, even though I had no wings, nor way. She gave me hope. When my grandmother passed away, I felt naked. She was my spiritual covering, my intercessor, my router to God’s help line. Without it I was afraid and felt like I was free falling fast. But like a bird thrust from its nest at the appointed time, our earthly separation had been ordained. It was training. I was finally forced to use the spiritual wings I’d always had but remained tucked away in the comfort of her safety nest.
But this. This brand of grief was different. It was grimy, invisible, and brutally cold. Hovering over my shoulders like an old, mildewed, dry rotted blanket, it stunk. Although I was over thirty-five, I still felt green, vulnerable and unprepared. It felt unfair that I was left in the world alone especially on the precipice of my mom and I finally forging a decent relationship. I wish I had known that we were almost out of time. While others were out celebrating the mothers in their lives, I slept until dusk. The days that followed were a tumultuous seesaw of blissful reflections and painful, empty lows. It was brutal.
When I came up for air, it was Mother’s Day. My soul ached at the realization, the longing for a mother figure, an anchor, and some guiding light in this world. And yet, I’m still here; left to make sense of my place and purpose on this planet. Through my journey of grief, I’ve learned two important lessons:
First, we have everything that we need.
In the depths of sorrow, it’s easy to forget the strength and resilience we possess. My Nana’s wisdom, my grandmother’s faith, and even my mother’s imperfections equipped me with tools I didn’t know I had. These lessons remind me that, despite the emptiness grief leaves, there is a reservoir of strength within us accumulated from those who loved us.
Second, grief transforms, but it does not define us.
The pain of losing my mother was sharp and unrelenting, but it did not obliterate the person I was or the person I am meant to become. Instead, it reshaped me, adding layers of depth, intention, and understanding. It’s a testament to human resilience that we can endure such profound loss and still emerge capable of joy, growth, and love.
*Edited by Non-Fiction Editor, Jina DuVernay
************
Are you a Black woman writer? We’re looking for short stories and personal essays to feature on our digital and print platforms. Click HERE to find out how to submit.
