Thirty years is a long time, but I remember every detail of that day like a broken Etch a Sketch which can't be erased. I was eight-years-old and just finished tap dance class. About to walk home with my cousins, my uncle came to pick us up. We refused the ride but he insisted. I knew. I knew then she was gone. I entered our apartment to the smell of Rice Crispy Treats wafting from the kitchen full of anguished faces—my aunts, my grandmother and my brother. My brother's eyes confirmed what I already knew as my grandmother told me to change out of my "unitard". I sassed back, "It's called a leotard!," and my aunt hit me and told me to do as I was told. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, hands shaking. I pulled the string on my ceiling lamp so hard it came crashing down and shattered, just like my world. With a book, I swept the glass under my bed, changed my clothes and told God I hated him. I went back down to the kitchen and my uncle, one I didn't particularly like, told me my mother died. "Don't worry, she's in heaven now. She's an angel watching over you," he said. I wondered why my father wasn't there. I wondered if I'd get to see my mother's body. I wondered what the hell was going to happen to me?! My heart ached and I felt abandoned.
It's hard to believe it was so long ago; the memory is still sharp and painful, and it knocks the wind out of me when I allow my mind to go there. When I told the kids that my mother died thirty years ago today, Currier asked, "How many days is thirty years?" Together we figured out it's 10,950 days. I acknowledged that was a lot of days to miss someone and Rya asked, "You still miss her?" "Of course I miss her. I will always miss my mother. It doesn't matter how old you are—when you feel sick or sad you'll always want your mommy." For me, today is one of those days.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
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1 comment:
Beautifully said Colleen. You have such a gift. Seriously, you are hilarious and sensitive. A great combination. You are a wonderful writer. Go for it!
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