In this space, I heal
the light comes into my heart
and love guides my hand
Therapy, it’s called
embracing God’s creations
could hope be right here
Channeling the good
denouncing the bad in time —
taking it slowly
Every day is new
gifts that are of high prices
lead me to sweet dreams
If these plants could talk
would they want me here with them
I truly hope so
Originally published via Medium.
I tell him things can’t
get any worse and we
agree to tell her — we agree
to let her know we’ve been
watching her, dreaming about
her, and waiting for her
to pick one of us.
Creepy, though it may sound,
she was into it.
He had his reasons.
I had mine. We told her
all of them.
“Fifteen minutes. Just give
me fifteen minutes. That’s
all I need to prove
I’m the better choice.”
I paced in front of her
awaiting her decision.
Surely, she’d see things
my way, but what happened
was just the opposite.
I stood there, still as clay,
afraid to shed the past
in front of a person
I claimed a future with and
nothing I said made
any sense.
She looked on, curious
to know where my antics
were headed; everything
drew itself free from
my grip and every word I
uttered turned into dust.
I watched this woman
we chased sprinkle
herself over the two
of us — potioned and portioned
perfectly and the only
thing I could think of
to say was,
“I got it.”
This poem came to me while listening to the musical selection on repeat — I had the cover photo saved in my phone for later use; I felt as though it was the perfect image for this piece
Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.
My mother came to stay with me from April 20, 2021, until April 24, 2021. The intent? To be here with me after my consultation and workup for keratoconus on April 22, 2021. I had been informed prior to the appointment by the nurse that I could have blurry vision for a few hours. My mother thought it best to be here so she could help with Jernee. I will preface this by saying, I am not used to having someone in my space for more than three days (or needing assistance or reaching out for it) and each time my mom stays with us past that mark (it’s not often — it’s quite rare), I am further reminded of why I left home at such a young age.
To say that we are vastly different would not cut it. I am daytime and my mother is nightfall. We are at two different ends of a spectrum yet — the love we have for each other knows no bounds. As I age, I thank God for lending me another year so I can continue to try to understand the woman who gave birth to me.
Will I ever succeed in this? Or, will I die trying?
I want to be optimistic about who we are and the fact that we still have growing to do and we will accomplish that together but an aching nag in the back of my mind tries to subdue me and cause me to believe it is impossible.
I can see a picture of us with growth behind us that leads to a positive outcome years from now, but I can also see a picture of the opposite. Which one will prevail?
Those days spent with my mother a couple weeks ago, ushering in earlier dinner times and trying to be patient with her long, drawn-out stories and rehashing of things said earlier in the day could not end soon enough. My mother will be sixty years old this year and there are already signs of her mental faculties closing in on her. When I was in my teens, she spent most of her money and time depositing various drugs into her system including copious amounts of alcohol.
She had been running away from who she was for several years and now it seems as if she is circling back to that past person sans drugs, of course. Her temperament is easily disrupted. A word that is spoken out of turn or in reference to something she may have said that was incorrect will send harmful epithets flying in the very direction of those she loves.
We have many conversations about her failing memory and how if I truly needed someone to take care of me should an extreme turn of events occur, she may in fact not be that person. I do not feel confident lending my life to her — not in that way and it pains me to say so — to even see the words typed on-screen, causes me to tear up.
What do you do when you’ve mothered a mother who was a mother before her time and you may have to keep mothering her well before you think it’s time?
At the age of eighteen, motherhood was thrust upon her and although she used to tell me she was ready, she truly wasn’t. Neither of my parents was. The two of them have my great-grandmothers, grandmother, godmother, and older aunts to thank for helping them raise me. And with this, what did they get? A little girl who was mature enough to handle certain situations they could have never thought of handling while they were growing up. I also had the label “grown” thrown at me more times than I care to remember.
To grow alongside one’s parents is an odd thing. My mother was my mother but felt more like a friend. My father was my father but felt more like the homeboy up the block I played basketball with to sharpen my skills. We were all growing up together but I was being groomed, it seemed, to be more of an adult than them.
And when their divorce happened, so did the crash into drugs for my mother and my taking over her mothering role, and it kind of stuck. So, instead of being an actual sister to my siblings, I am more of a godmother or a mother or a being they show far more respect to than they do their own parents. It doesn’t feel good — it isn’t something for which I applaud them. I am rather upfront about how I feel they should treat our parents.
I don’t like the angered human being who spews out never-ending wrath because of trapped pain or perhaps the fear of aging or perhaps the fear of losing a handle on her children even more? I believe my mother felt useful being here with me during those few days but swiftly noticed that I was still as independent as I have always been.
So, where did that place her? How could she try to insert her mother role if there were no more opportunities?
In walks Jernee . . . the nine-pounder who has truly stolen my mother’s heart. I enjoyed every moment (as I always do) watching my mother and my dog interact. Jernee has a favorite spot whenever my mother visits or when we visit my mother and that’s as close to her nana as she can get. My mother is calm with her, undeniably sweet, and rubs or pats her tummy or back until Jernee falls asleep.
She is cautious in how she prepares her food and is rather vocal to anyone who thinks Jernee can have every treat there is under the sun (she can’t, she has various allergies and I am serious about not having her hospitalized again for hemorrhagic gastroenteritis). She will let you know in a way in which you will not forget that Jernee “cannot have that. Thank you, but no thank you.”
She loves on her with genuine sincerity and this touches me at the very center of who I am and I cannot help but appreciate the love she pours into this pet who means so much to me.
Not a grandmother (my nieces and nephews are my dad’s grandchildren), my mom shows me the mothering qualities she has stored up over the years in hopes of using once again, are carefully being issued to her “granddog.”
It is in her voice — in the way she lures Jernee to her. It is in the way she takes her time with Jernee who now, sometimes struggles to see late at night. It is also in the way she disciplines me for attempting to demand something of Jernee.
I look at the two of them together and there is no doubt in my mind that my mom is mothering the way she has always wanted to. And all it took was a connection to my dog who has really become “our family’s dog” since I introduced them to one another thirteen years ago.
We may not be the best mother-daughter team but we know our flaws and we’re willing to continue to work on them and get better at being open to the changes occurring. We will forever be works in progress but we have come so far and the war still rages.
Both of us are warriors, ready for battle — ready to keep each other first, no matter the cost. I realize now — I’ll always mother someone for it is deeply ingrained in who I am. And perhaps my mother will no doubt use her newfound mothering skills to press forward into the coming years sharpening those skills.
Maybe with her human grandchildren, if two of my brothers decide to actually make that dream a reality. I can almost smell the love in the air.
To those of you mothering mothers who have lost their way, mothers who cannot remember their roles, or mothers who look up to you more than you can fathom, this is for you. Mothers and mothering people giving your all to your children or someone else’s, thank you. Happy Mother’s Day.
Previous parts to I Mother No One
Originally published in P. S. I Love You via Medium.
I wanted to be there in person
but I embraced the fact that
a violent virus is still tagging
along on the backs of culprits
and drifting into the lungs of
thousands of human beings on
a daily basis, so I secured
my place in the comfort of
my home as I watched the
youngest of our tribe
crossover into the “real world.”
What an honor—the tears
that flowed down my face
as her name was called— watching
her stand to wave at the
camera as if to say, “Hello, world!
I’m ready. So, you’d better be,”
transported me back to
every graduation I’ve had
the pleasure to attend.
But this one is different . . .
This one comes with the
glory of knowing a young, black
woman transitioned from teenager
to graduate, obtaining her degree
“with the highest distinction”
in Music Education.
What better way to carry on
the legacy of our family
than to do it by gifting others
the beauty of song?
Bless has been far more
than a blessing to us—she’s been
a dream come true for me as
I’ve always envisioned having
a little sister and after gaining
five brothers, she came thundering
through—swiftly carving a place
for herself within our world.
I feel inadequate when
placing words together to
describe her essence—the
all-knowingness of her very
presence cannot be scribed.
It is something that has
to be experienced.
And as she grows, our bond
strengthens and I am no
longer the big sister who is
nearly twenty years older than
her, I am merely, “sis”—a woman
with whom she connects
on a higher scale than
years prior.
I can see seas parting for
her—making a way
for her continued steps
as she introduces herself
to the world beyond
her peripheral view and
I know she is going
to do great things.
I will be here for
each and every
one of them.
Originally published via Medium.
“Grampy, the plumbers are here to take a look at the busted pipes!”
Elijah yells toward the back of his grandparents’ shotgun house — screams loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
“You wanna give me my pipe? Yes, boy, that’ll be all right. It’s in the den on the coffee table.”
Elijah shakes his head and cautions the plumbers with his right hand and then directs them to the bathroom on the first floor which is where they will begin their work.
“No, Grampy! The pipes! The busted pipes from the storm. The plumbers are here to fix them!”
“Mice!!! When did we get mice?! Lemme get up and find some traps, boy. We can’t have no mice cohabitating with us. No, siree.”
Elijah presses two fingers to the temples of his head and massages slowly. He then walks toward his grandfather’s bedroom and enters the room with a defeated look on his face. He stands near the window, breathes out, and begins again . . .
“Grampy, the plumbers are here to fix the pipes. There are no mice and you stopped smoking that godawful pipe three years ago.”
He looks at his grandfather, places a hand on his shoulder, and smiles gently.
“Well, if you wanted company boy, why didn’t you just say so? Sure, they can spend the night.”
A look of bewilderment shot across Elijah’s face as he tried to understand exactly what his grandfather was going on about now.
“Grampy, for who to spend the night? This is about the pipes, Grampy. The busted pipes!”
His voice was at a measured shrill with just enough volume to alert his grandmother in the kitchen. She came running to her grandson’s aid.
“Gerald! Pay attention to me, please. Elijah said the plumbers are here to start work on the busted pipes from that winter storm! They’re in the bathroom downstairs, that’s where they’ll begin!”
Although she was shouting, Sue’s voice was just as serene and peaceful as if she were speaking calmly to an infant. Elijah thought to himself, surely his grandfather would not hear her.
“Now, Elijah is going to keep watch over them while they work on the pipes and I’ll finish dinner.”
A brief moment of silence waltzed in on them and Elijah and Sue awaited Gerald’s response.
“Sue, of all the things in this world you could call me, I never thought a sinner would be one of them. And if those plumbers don’t hurry up and get here, we’re going to spend another night in this house with no water!”
Sue looked at Elijah, smiled, and gave his hand a pat.
“Today’s almost done, Elijah. Tomorrow is a new day. Maybe it’ll be a good day for him.”
Elijah gave his grandmother’s hand a gentle pat and smiled back at her.
“Maybe.”
Originally published in The Weekly Knob via Medium.
I feel nothing.
I’m supposed to feel
something . . .
Something is supposed to
hit me, shake me,
break me into
some semblance of
acceptance —
isn’t it?
But
there’s nothing there.
I want to be happy.
I want to feel relieved.
I want to celebrate like
the majority of this
world but I know
this is far from over.
The damage is done
and really, how do
we undo it?
Where can we start?
What needs to take place?
So many movements.
So many lives lost
and this one victory
tap-dances on our hearts
and it feels . . .
other-worldly — as if
the programming of its
occurrence hasn’t reached
the highest ratings and
we’re still waiting for
the go-ahead to
breathe.
I still have unearthed
breaths tucked in from
unjustified killings
stabbing me in
my gut — I can’t find
an endpoint.
There is no safe
zone.
And people laugh
and clap their hands
loudly and join along
in the grand hoopla
of it all while I
shelter-in-place with my
damaged spirit.
Tell me, what am I
supposed to feel?
I carry this verdict
with me, bury it in
my faulty vision, blink
away the madness of it
all, then settle on
the unclear view.
“It’s a start,” someone
says and I can’t help
but hear my trapped voice
rebut, “It’s your start.
I’m finished.”
Justice delayed is justice denied. — William E. Gladstone
Originally published on Medium.
A Cornered Gurl 
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