I plan to dedicate a collection of writings this May to remember the mothers—those who remain with us, those forgotten, and those who’ve left this earth, still living in our memories.
First, a poem:
I remember the scent of crawfish etouffee, steaming over rice, tantalizing Cajun flavors, filling my mouth.
I remember Hurricane Andrew, bark flying off trees as I run home
from school through the fierce winds.
And I remember my dad taking his last breath on our blue sofa
in the living room, my child eyes confused and afraid.
I remember ice cream truck tunes filling the neighborhood, hoping
Mama gave me four quarters before the tasty treats rolled away.
And Aunt Connie sitting on the sofa with Penny, her toy poodle—she
loved her fluffy pooch dearly.
I remember Mama promising me a whooping when we returned home,
fear in the pit of my stomach at the thought of the skinny board against
my legs.
And summers spent at church camps or the beach or hotel swimming pools.
I remember my brothers cleaning the driveway of oil spots, pushing gravel
across the stains with a broom, soaking up the residue.
And dollar movies at Broadmoor theater, the dirty floors and stale
popcorn and the stench, but a bounty of laughter.
I remember watching fireworks for the Fourth of July with Mama, and
my siblings, by the levee, a Star-Spangled display, but that was yesterday.
A few things happened in the year 2017 that forever sealed the nostalgic I experience during the month of May:
1. A doctor declared my mother healed enough for driving and rehabilitation.
2. I shared prose at the Listen to Your Mother event about my mother, to my mother, in an audience of hundreds, with my family present.
3. We celebrated Mother’s Day—we cooked pasta for the mom’s in our lives.
4. My nephew celebrated a birthday, interrupted by my mom’s death the same day--the Sunday after Mother’s Day.
Three distinct events: Listen to Your Mother, Mother's Day, nephew's birthday interrupted. I’m sure my siblings and family will never forget those traumatic moments that changed each of us in different ways. God continues to help me remember the blessing my mother has been—and in many ways still is, despite her absence—with each passing day.
This week, a quote from Maya Shanbhag Lang’s book, What We Carry, brought just a little more healing. In regards to stories and how we each perceive things, she writes, “We see what we want to see…without it, I don’t know that I could have accomplished what I did.”
I saw my mother as my hero, and a great woman of Faith. Her struggle inspires me. Her persistence compels me. Each memory of her is a steppingstone, a shot into uncharted territory. I know I’ll land on my feet, among stars, because her Faith in God taught me how.
Thank you, mom. Thank you, God. I remember.
5 May 2023