This past Sunday, I was kinda feeling myself. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
The audio below is probably one of the most sincere and dearest things to me that I have ever shared here on WordPress or on any other writing platform, for that matter. Take heed–it is lengthy. I appreciate your patience. If you stick with it until the end, I applaud you. Thank you in advance for listening.
Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book& Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback(only) yet?
I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutrecent events with a previous place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination, growth from the transition after resigning from that company, and life’s foibles and overall experiences. I welcome your visit.
For the motherless, childless, mothering mothers who still mother & always will
AI-Generated Image: A Black woman and her four children, two girls and two boys. They are all facing the camera with lovely smiles on their faces. The mother has her natural hair swooped to the side and full in the back. She is wearing an orange-ish top with a bold red lipstick. The children are leaning against her, two to each side.
Each year, I document how I mother while being childless, and I am inspired by so many women who are mothers in their own way. They have mothered the motherless, tended to the childless, cared for the wayward, and loved the newly orphaned and tormented. I know older sisters (myself included) who still mother their significantly younger siblings – they offer advice and pick them up in the middle of the night from clubs when they’ve had too much to drink and are far too inebriated to string full sentences together. They are Wonder Woman and Superwoman in ways I cannot fathom, while still managing to pull their lives together just in the nick of time to keep it from falling apart.
I have befriended aunts who have lived their lives centered around their nieces and nephews (myself included). They never miss a birthday, video call at all hours of the day to see their babies’ smiling faces, pop up at schools to surprise them with lunch, and will stomp a mudhole in an older kid bullying a baby of theirs and then ask that child, “Where is your mama so she can get some of this, too?” like it’s just a normal Tuesday during a regular week.
I know elder cousins acting as mothers for their younger cousins who have lost their way – the paths of life have worn them down to the nubs, and all they can do now is cry and weep and wail on their cousin’s shoulder. They are pillars in the face of adversity and can calm their blood-related loved ones down in seconds flat. I loved an elder cousin like this once. I still do, even though she is no longer here with us on this Earthly Plane. I admire these cousins – they are my suns and moons – light in an ever-increasing darkness.
Still, as the definitions apply:
Mother: The Definition(s)
I mother no one. I have mothered. I do motherly things. I can mother up and down the corners and edges of this world, but I did not give birth to a child. I have been all that I can be to my cousins, nieces, nephews, brothers, and sister, and so many more, but they are not mine. They do not belong to me. I did not vainly labor with any of them. I cannot recount delivery tales of anguish and agony, nor can I gloat about them taking after me when they do something of which I approve.
My ovaries did not contribute to society. My womb is barren – it is a prison cell for emptiness and passing hours. I have no desire to see it grow with a miniature version of me inside.
I am in awe of those who have taken the plunge. For the women who are mothers by definition and tradition, I tip my hat off to you. You have a job that never ends, and you receive no pay, no time off, and no vacation to rejuvenate your mind or spirit. You are often overlooked, cast into the shadows of endless time, and you do it all without complaint, although you want to. And you have your heart committed to this task until you or your child(ren) die. How heroic is that?!
I wait on the wings of hope, secretly wishing I could understand – gain just a glimpse of your life, then I remember . . . some of us are here to be what we can be, and we mother in other ways. I find a sense of solace within this reminder. You have my love and respect. You are to be championed every hour of each day.
AI-Generated Image: A Hispanic woman cuddling her two boys. She has a beautiful smile, and both boys are leaning into her, engaged with the camera. There is a blurred background of green and perhaps a playground out of sight, too?
As I sit here and type this message to each of you, I want you to know of your brilliance, of your patience, of your timeless selflessness that knows no bounds. If you are a mother and mothering the way you are meant to fit that role, you have my undying admiration. If you care when the word seems to fall off the tongues of menaces who have forgotten its meaning, I see you. If you are soldiering forward with $15.27 to your name and have prepared a meal for your children using $12.58 of that, I see you. You’ve got every other human being tracking you down and leaning against your chest yearning for a thirty-minute suckle at your breasts, yet you constantly put your children first and slam the door in their faces and verbally admonish their requests, know that I SEE YOU.
For the mothers who are not mothers, mothering in the face of time, barren wombs, lost hope, wayward siblings, and all of the missed marks of this world as you raise your gift of nurturing to higher heights, I see you. When the world says, “But you are not a mother,” I hear your cries in the middle of the night as you softly shout back to the women who hold the title only, “And neither are you!” I see you. When you’re stopped in the grocery store by a toddler who noticed your smile two aisles down and ran behind you to see it again, escaping his mother, you have a good heart, and that baby can tell, too. I SEE YOU.
For the motherless, childless, mothering mothers who still mother and always will, this is your day. And with it, do what you will. You have earned it, and with it, may I embrace you fully and wholly and center you when everything in this current realm is burning to the ground. Find love and hope in the eyes of a child you mothered and look at your reflection in their eyes.
You are more than what you think you are to them. Believe me.
Conversation between my friend and I, re: my belief that I should be an old person, and her telling me I will be one and hopefully, I’ll encounter someone just like me when I am older. That’s what I call Pop-up Love–love straight outta the blue when you least expect it.
I joke about my belief that I should be an old person with a friend who gets the sillier side of me than most people do–and what transpired was the birth of pop-up love.
Earlier that day, an elderly woman was being escorted down the hall by one of our Techs, and someone decided it a good time to make hot cocoa. She looked into my office as she hobbled by and straight into my eyes, and said, “Did you put on some hot cocoa?!”
I wanted to hug this beautiful aging woman and hold on tight to her. When I answered her, I smiled widely–“No, ma’am. It wasn’t me.” In that moment, I wish it were me–I wish I had enough time to place two mugs smack dab in the middle of that hallway, sit in a crooked circle with her, and down the creamy goodness of a favorite pastime delight.
I could tell she was a pistol in her day, making the men smile, and probably some women, too. She had curly, wispy hair, a lean-away from posture, and a slow hobble that needed little-to-no guiding. And all I could do was smile. Smile and wish I could shoot the shit with her.
But back to my friend who commented lovingly about my eventually being old and hopefully the older version of me would meet someone like me. Let it sit. Let it marinate.
When someone isn’t as open with their love or their trust and they decide to land a phrase on you that could lift you up when you least expect it–you’re doing what God has formed you to do.
You are creating change.
And as I re-read her comment several times that day and into the next, I grew thankful for having characteristics that meld into the memories of my loved ones, and they can rehash them when the time is right.
Whoever thought my affinity for the elderly would lead me down a road of love that was needed in a moment where I was feeling I hadn’t had the chance to feel loved as deeply as I would like.
And then love pops up, out of a place it usually doesn’t form, and reminds me I am still worthy and my flowers lay at my feet.
He lay in the middle of the road, shivering from the intense cold. Darius slows the car down to a stroll. Serena opens the door — tightens the feel of her winter coat around her, and rushes to scoop up the precious thing into her arms.
It is a cold, late autumn night. She and Darius had just left a charity event thrown by her company — a non-profit organization built on the premise of revitalizing their city and finding homes for stray dogs and cats. What were the chances they would land upon a chocolate Cocker Spaniel/Labrador mix in the middle of the road on their drive back home?
She looks into its eyes and rolls it over onto its back, staring past its belly to check its gender — male. She whispers to the drenched ball of fur, “Fate. I think we’ll call you, ‘Fate.’”
She runs toward their car, pulls the door open, and quickly slides onto the heated seat. Darius is thumping his ashy thumbs on the steering wheel. He stares at her intently and says, “Who could leave such a sweet baby to fend for itself out here in all this?!” His hands flail dramatically in front of him.
“I named him ‘Fate.’ I think he will be a great addition to our family, Darius. Sebastian and Nora will fall in love with him. They truly will!”
Darius and Serena had a two-year-old Goldendoodle and a four-year-old Maine Coon cat at home. Both were rescues. Sebastian, the Goldendoodle, had been found in a ditch three miles away from their home on a sunny July morning. Nora, the Maine Coon, had been seen running feverishly out of a burning shed one mile away from their church.
Their home had been a quiet, welcoming spot for both animals. And now, it will be one for Fate, too.
As they pull into the driveway, Serena towel-dries Fate with one of the heavy towels the couple keeps in their car as part of their “emergency kit.” The little thing moves gingerly in her care as if to signal he understands what is going on. She scoops him up and places a gentle kiss on his snout.
Inside their home, Sebastian sits with Nora in their living room — his fluffy bottom faces the fireplace. Nora nestles alongside his chest — sleeping to the sound of his heartbeat.
Serena tiptoes to their kitchen — pulls out a favorite brand of puppy dog food, and sprinkles one scoop into Fate’s bowl. Next to this hearty meal, she fills another bowl with fresh water. She places Fate on the floor and watches his reaction.
The puppy lunges toward the bowl housing the food — hungry for a meal he hadn’t had in days. He swallows hurriedly, breathing in small pants between each bite. He shuffles his furry little body over to the water and sips until his belly pokes out.
Serena’s eyes fill with tears. One slips away and slides down her cold face. Darius stands at the kitchen entrance and gazes upon his wife and their new baby as they bond.
Who’s feeding whom? Who saved who?
As time passes, Fate grows along with Sebastian and Nora. The three of them fill Darius and Serena’s hearts with so much love. The couple watches their three fur babies interact with each other daily. The connection can only be described as “kismet,” — they were meant to be.
And with Fate’s name literally tying the family closer, Serena knows it is time to announce their newest addition. She turns to Darius as he watches the threesome plop around playfully in their backyard, leans closer to him, and nudges his chin. A glimmer in her eyes appears when she says, “Babe, I’m pregnant.”
The news floors Darius. It overcomes him with joy. They had tried for years to conceive and now … they could breathe easier. As the two of them zoom in on their small family, they envision it becoming bigger.
The work they do — the families they connect with when finding the best homes for stray dogs and cats invigorates them.
How will they continue their cause with a baby in tow?
They can and they will.
Someone has to fight the brutal fight of maintaining beauty and comfort in their thriving neighborhood. Someone has to feed the babies of the world — both humans and animals. Someone has to clear the streets of garbage, lost sneakers, and cigarette butts.
Fate brought more to Serena and Darius than just peace — he brought love — deep, everlasting love.
And now, on a chilly night in late November, not only have their hearts bloomed with indescribable joy, they are fed in full.
This is a slightly edited version of a piece written for Hinged.press’ (formerly, The Weekly Knob) annual participation in “Thankmas”. Thank you for reading.
I never thought I’d live to see the mass destruction of all things different–but here we are. As many reflect on the6th anniversary of the Pulse shooting where 49 people were gunned down and killed while 53 others had been wounded, I am sitting with my thoughts on just how insane the world in which we live has become. At the age of 42 and as a Black woman who is bisexual, and also lives in the South, fear and I are “kissing friends.” We have a relationship where she pulls at my hair and I slap her hands away assertively yet with just a bit of caution, too. We are warped bosom buddies–our lives entwined for decades because this has “become the norm.” I can’t slip out of my skin to appease the majority, however, if you asked them if I can, they’d rebut, “Yes, it can be done.”
Someone has poured some type of creamer in their coffee that deteriorates brain cells and as my friend’s mother used to say, “Something in the milk ain’t clean.” Who are we to cast down or out those who do not look, act, agree with, or follow our beliefs? Who are we to denounce a community because we do not understand their lives? Who are we to harbor hate for those with different socioeconomic backgrounds, upbringings, and work ethics? Everyone is so busy playing God they’ve forgotten just who God truly is.
If God IS love, why are so many who claim to follow him displaying the opposite? I want to be a lasting voice. When I am gone, affix my words to my tombstone–compile a few of my most vulnerable pieces and share them with my hurting loved ones. When my body is ash, spread me along the Savannah River, purify its depth. I do not want to be remembered as someone who was merely existing during a time when all hell broke loose and lifted herself in phases because living in whole parts had become too exhausting.
Living now is exhausting.
And it pains me to reflect on the past, observe the present, and admit that I do not want any parts of the torturous future ahead. Not if there aren’t serious changes. I am one voice. I say to you now, do not let yours go silent–do not allow yours to be stunted. Pull whatever morsel of goodness you have dwelling within the pits of your belly out, and spread it all over this world.
We are dying by the hundreds. We are hurting by the thousands. We are struggling by the millions. And soon, if we do not become wise, we will all be dead without forgiveness.
Bugs, blooms, and birds are wild with life, each pressing through their own way of being.
I am gifted by the heavens to open my eyes, spread out my arms, and let the rain wash over me.
Chirping pummels through my windows, louder than I can tolerate, but the harmony is mesmerizing.
I won’t complain.
The dog and I walk around our neighborhood at a fast pace, picking up speed as the wind howls on a subtle spring day.
The sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds and every other day is a race to beat the grip of Winter while waiting on the cusp of Summer.
“I have no fight left in me” is what I tell a friend who asks how I’m dealing with death.
Death of a season Death of a job Death of a hobby Death of family Death of a friend . . .
“I have no fight left in me.” And it’s part true and part lie but she doesn’t ask a follow-up question and for this, I am grateful.
I spend most of my vacation time away at my best friend’s house lulled by nature in her plant therapy room, losing who I was — finding who I should be.
I am changing with the season and with every breath I’m given, I look forward to shedding this skin.
A Cornered Gurl 
You must be logged in to post a comment.