Re: Death Blossoms: Reflections From a Prisoner of Conscienc
Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 12:08 am
Mother-loss
RELATIVELY TALL, mountainous cheekbones, dimples like doughnuts, and skin the color of Indian corn, she left life in the South for what was then the promised land, "up Nawth." Although she lived, loved, raised a family, and worked over half her life "up Nawth," the soft, lyrical accents of her southern tongue never really left her. Words of a single syllable found a new one in her mouth, often rising on the second syllable: "Keith" became" Key-earth;" "child" became "Chyi'le," and her reedy, lengthy laughter lit up the room like a holiday. She, and her children, lived in the "peejays" (the projects), but it wasn't until years later (when we were grown) that we understood we had lived in poverty, for our mother made sure our needs were met. She was a gentle woman who spoke well, if at all, of most folk, but she was like a lioness when one of her children was attacked.
In the early '60s, when her daughter got caught up in a neighborhood fracas that boiled out of control, she snapped a broomstick in two, whipped open a path down the block to where her daughter stood paralyzed by terror, grabbed her, and whipped her way back home. Only when she was safely back indoors did she realize that she had been slashed while outdoors -- she never noticed, so powerful was her love for her daughter. Deep rivers of loving strength flowed through her.
A mother's love is the foundation of every love: it is the primary relationship of all human love, the first love we experience and, as such, a profound influence on all subsequent and secondary relationships in life. It is a love that surpasses all reason.
Perhaps that's why I thought she would live forever -- that this woman who carried me, my brothers, and my sister, would never know death. For thirty years she smoked Pall Malls and Marlboros, yet still I thought she would live forever. When she died, of emphysema, while I was imprisoned, it was like a lightning bolt to the soul. Never during my entire existence had there been a time when she was not there. Suddenly, on a cold day in February, her breath had ended, and her sweet presence, her wise counsel, was gone forever.
To know one's mother dead, yet remain imprisoned! To imagine her lifeless form while held in shackles! To crush the hope of ever again embracing she who birthed me!
RELATIVELY TALL, mountainous cheekbones, dimples like doughnuts, and skin the color of Indian corn, she left life in the South for what was then the promised land, "up Nawth." Although she lived, loved, raised a family, and worked over half her life "up Nawth," the soft, lyrical accents of her southern tongue never really left her. Words of a single syllable found a new one in her mouth, often rising on the second syllable: "Keith" became" Key-earth;" "child" became "Chyi'le," and her reedy, lengthy laughter lit up the room like a holiday. She, and her children, lived in the "peejays" (the projects), but it wasn't until years later (when we were grown) that we understood we had lived in poverty, for our mother made sure our needs were met. She was a gentle woman who spoke well, if at all, of most folk, but she was like a lioness when one of her children was attacked.
In the early '60s, when her daughter got caught up in a neighborhood fracas that boiled out of control, she snapped a broomstick in two, whipped open a path down the block to where her daughter stood paralyzed by terror, grabbed her, and whipped her way back home. Only when she was safely back indoors did she realize that she had been slashed while outdoors -- she never noticed, so powerful was her love for her daughter. Deep rivers of loving strength flowed through her.
A mother's love is the foundation of every love: it is the primary relationship of all human love, the first love we experience and, as such, a profound influence on all subsequent and secondary relationships in life. It is a love that surpasses all reason.
Perhaps that's why I thought she would live forever -- that this woman who carried me, my brothers, and my sister, would never know death. For thirty years she smoked Pall Malls and Marlboros, yet still I thought she would live forever. When she died, of emphysema, while I was imprisoned, it was like a lightning bolt to the soul. Never during my entire existence had there been a time when she was not there. Suddenly, on a cold day in February, her breath had ended, and her sweet presence, her wise counsel, was gone forever.
To know one's mother dead, yet remain imprisoned! To imagine her lifeless form while held in shackles! To crush the hope of ever again embracing she who birthed me!