So much…

Man… there is so much going on.  I’m trying to hang on to the edge of the world whilst it spins around.

Of course the motherhood thing takes precedence.  What an abrupt change!  It really is literally overnight that your whole world changes.  And there’s NOTHING in the 9 – 10 months of gestation that prepares you for the rigors of the actual care and maintenance of the little one.  Actually, if you play your cards right the 9 – 10 months is probably the last bits of really restful sleep / “alone” time you’ll get before it all gets started and stabilized.  But it doesn’t matter.  It’s not like you can save up sleep from those days to carry you through the next few weeks / months that it takes to get a “schedule” going.  Thank God for maternity leave.  I was talking to a woman at work who back in the day had no maternity leave and she had her baby on a Tuesday and was back to work the following Monday.  I think my brain would have exploded if I had to do that.  It’s extremely good that you get those weeks to kind of ease into it all – so if the baby kept you up all night – you can manage to sleep it off the next day and not have to worry about deadlines and things needed from the thousand points of light that normally are always asking something of you.  I have about 5 more weeks to go of this “quiet” in the rest of my life.  But this part of my life is so noisy – I’m not sure it makes a difference.

We’re moving.  E’s mom has a rental property on the top floor of her brownstone and it’s twice the space that we currently have which would give the baby a room of her own and afford us a dining room in addition to the rooms we currently have.   Originally the set up was that she would charge us a discounted rate for the next year so that we could bank about 200 – 300 dollars so that the dream / aspiration of getting our own home could be closer in reach.  But after all the renovations, she is charging us so that we’ll only be able to bank 100 bucks.  So basically paying the same thing we pay now for twice the space.  There are several pros and cons to this whole situation.  The biggest con is that we’ll be living above his mother.  I can’t say I’ve ever seen ONE situation where this ends up with the mother and daughter in law being best of friends upon parting.  I thought it could be different with us.  But as the days pass… I see all the things creeping in that are going to make us fast enemies and put E in compromising situations.   Increasingly more comments about my parenting style… her deciding she wants to care for my daughter the way she wants to and not the way I asked her to…  constant referral to the property upstairs as “hers” (I mean… it is… and we know that… but our current landlady doesn’t show up every few times a week just to remind us that we live on HER property).  We asked her if we could paint the walls to which she responded “Yeah, you can – just don’t mess up my floors.”  Okay.  So I tarped the floors really good and we started getting busy – but E got wrapped up in being picasso for the baby’s room.  So i ended up painting a whole room by myself.  On one of my breaks downstairs to check on the baby and get a little air conditioning she asked me if I thought I was “overdoing it”….  No. I don’t.  When we moved into the current apartment we just started getting things into the house we never thought to paint it with all the furniture coming in.  The walls were and have been eggshell and white.  For four years.  I didn’t want to take the chance that should we be there for longer than 1 year that I’d be living in “heaven” again with all the white walls and ceilings.  But I’m taking it as her asking me if perhaps I can see that SHE perceives me to be going overboard with the painting by her standards.  I wonder if she would have asked a tenant off the street the same question.  This is just one example of MANY quick commentaries I’ve been fielding from her in the last few days that we’ve been at the house painting and preparing for the move.  There’s only so much button-lipdedness I can exercise before I say something……

Then there’s the family dynamic.  When you boil it all the way down and take the frills off of it and cut away the fluff?  I’m the only “stranger” moving into that complex when it goes down.  EVERYONE else in that building is family by blood.  Mother, Aunt, Brothers, Cousins.  I’m the only non-blood relation.  Even my daughter is their blood.  And boy – I’m really feeling it.  I understand that my family is really no where to be found because since I committed the cardinal sin of moving to brooklyn after getting married and away from my Queens based family that I no longer deserve their time / attention / travel to be around me and my family.  And there’s only so much reaching out in their direction I can do without any get back from them.  So decidedly, my little girl will know her father’s family better.  I guess it’s always one side more than the other.  Or at least in my experience.  My brother and I definitely knew my mother’s side of the family waaaay better than my dad’s side.  And that was for whatever reasons – they hadn’t traveled up to America – they didn’t really call a lot or make efforts to visit or ask for us to visit… so  Mom’s side DID – to the point where they lived with us for varied spans of time (which was good and bad) but we knew them.  I do truly feel that I’m all alone there.  I’m the only one not raised in THEIR way.  And so if I say something off color or kilter… I’m the one who’ll get the side eye like “who’s this bitch?”  I’ve never felt like more of an island.  I think that I won’t be able to be myself.  Sing loudly.  Have company.  Play my music on a Sunday morning.  Walk heavy – all for the fear of being reprimanded for… well… being myself.  Meanwhile – everyone else will be just fine.

The family dynamic brings another dimension – PRIVACY.  I believe that for the benefit of saving a whole $100 a month and for essentially living above Mommy-Day-Care for the baby, I am giving up every shred of my personal privacy and freedom.  I think that our apartment will be a veritable Grand Central Station for their family to just run up and down as they see fit.  I may never have time for me and my nuclear family alone.   I’m afraid to come out of the bathroom after a shower (bathroom is in the main hallway 2 doors down from what would be our bedroom) and find a family member of his wandering about.  And I think that enough of that? will be enough to destroy us.  We’re fighting as it is to make sure that we work every day – and that’s been in the vacuum of privacy that is our little apartment where it’s just us.   I am scared that moving in under the bright light of his family’s observance may break us.  I don’t want it to.  I just need to put it in writing to get it out of my head.

On top of ALL of that?  I’m having so much trouble bonding with my little one.  There were umpteen roadblocks stopping us from garnering this natural, ethereal connection that was supposed to be present at birth for her and I.  I couldn’t give birth vaginally.  I didn’t get to hold her in my arms for 6 hours.  I didn’t get to properly begin breastfeeding until 10 days later.   No one would believe that real bonafide side eye action that I get from this girl.  And I know it takes time for some folks.  I’m just worried that all this added “outside” interaction will water it down and I’ll ultimately become just a character in the background for her when she retells her life story.  Not that I wanted top billing?  But as this move draws nigh, I feel less like her mom and more like a glorified nanny who only gets occasional use.  Maybe a little more alone, quiet time together and that might change.  All the mothers I know assure me that this is 100% temporary and that I won’t feel this way for long.  All the articles I read told me that I really shouldn’t have taken on this many life changes post-partum.

I suppose it will all come out in the wash sooner or later.

*

Lessons…

Little one?

I’ll just teach you to validate yourself.  And let that be the priority to you always.  No one else’s say so … should say so.

that alone will free you from many of the shackles I’ve already worn.

*

Mortality

Once you’ve lost one loved one… and I mean a really close loved one – a parent, a sibling, a best friend – you become painfully aware that you are at risk of losing them all one day.  And it’s inevitable.

It changes how you look at everything in life.   How you react to folks and interact with them.  Nothing is ever interaction for the sake of living life.  You start to look at it (or… at least I do) as the memories you’ll look back on one day when this person isn’t around anymore.   And I try harder to hold on to these images in my mind so that I have something to keep me company in those times.  The memories for later that I create now.

I touch the madonna chain my mom… left to me – because she didn’t give it to me.  And my hand drifts down just a bit to touch my belly, now full with expectation.  And I find myself stuck in between.  Right in the middle passage of this strange cycle of life.  The loss of my mom’s life… the anticipation of a new one to start.  And I am living moments between them both.

Sidenote: Hindsight makes you examine things a little more carefully when you have new information.   Nightmares are sometimes harbingers of good tidings – but you place them in the frame of your current knowledge and they scare you because you don’t have all the information.  I look back at that dream and realize, they were mentally removing everything chemical… everything artificial… making way for the natural miracle that was about to take place.  I see that so clearly now.  But with lack of information and foresight… their presence and actions in my dreams scared me to death.

Grandma used to tell me that nothing is forever in this world.  And I heard her… but wasn’t listening.  I didn’t want to believe that good things weren’t forever too… wonderful people and happy experiences and the tangible personal warmth of bodily affection in the form of hugs and kisses and tender moments with your loved ones.  As good as all those things are – they HAVE to be forever…. right?

No.  But the memories of those things and the actual feeling of love created from those instances I sincerely believe transcend this existence and go with you… wherever your spirit is.

My heart is heavy and hurting right now as I observe a dear friend and sister go through what I went through.  I wouldn’t wish it on a mortal enemy.  And while we tell ourselves we know of the possibility of the outcomes – we’re NEVER prepared for the instance that takes the physical presence of our loved ones away.  There is a deep seated hurt / numbness / inconsolable void that takes over your function and while the words of comfort from the community swirl about your mind and soul – none of them can say what you want to hear.  “She’ll be back.  This is only temporary…”  or “Here’s a number to reach her while she’s gone”  or better yet – “this is just a nightmare – you’ll be waking up soon”.

I am trying to empty my head so my heart will function today.

*

What’s the big deal, Haitians?

As much as I would have liked to ignore what’s going on around me, this is something that caught my attention not so much because of what was said — but moreso because of the widespread reaction as a result.

On Friday morning, I got a text from a few of my Haitian comrades stating that Rosenberg of the HOT97 morning show had made a statement to the tune of “I’m HIV Negative because I don’t mess with Haitian Girls.” I’ve worked in radio too long to believe these kinds of things at face value. I’d worked at HOT97 too long to believe everything that came across my blackberry or email. I asked my friend if SHE actually heard him say this. She responded, “No, but 3 of her friends heard it and wrote to her immediately.” After making a few calls and asking some well placed questions, the truth came out that something was indeed said – by Cipha Sounds, not Rosenberg. Here’s exactly what went down in that few seconds. K. Foxx was talking about a benefit she attended where they introduced Sir Richard Branson’s new condom, designed to bring awareness and stop the spread of AIDS in Haiti and that she brought them some of the condoms from this function. A quick chuckle and under his breath (but into the microphone) Cipha quips (this is the actual quote people…) “Well, I don’t mess with Haitian girls, so I’m fine”. Immediately his co-hosts reprimand him for being disrespectful, Rosenberg makes a joke about the condoms themselves and everyone moves on.

Now, having worked there for many years and having interacted with Cipha Sounds, I know that he was just doing what he thinks he does best – being the class clown. What he doesn’t realize is how very old and painful a wound he stuck his salty finger in and twisted in that moment. So in case you’re reading, Ciph – here’s why my people are seriously enraged at what seems to only have been “a one-liner”.

Flash back to the 1980s (I’ll do a truncated version because I know how the attention span can go pretty quickly). AIDS awareness is on the rise and is striking fear in many a good red blooded American’s heart. They’re trying to pin the blame for AIDS wherever they can find it. And it seems most logical to pin the source and nexus of the disease on the places that seem to be most heavily affected. Back then, various countries in Africa and my dear homeland, Haiti. It was widespread in the news and media that these were the places to place blame for this scourge ravaging our planet (oh, and Gays. right). Well – who doesn’t believe what’s in the media? Or at least – how much less was it questioned back then. In 1989, I attended St. Francis Preparatory HS (GO TERRIERS) and there was a massive blood drive. 13 years old and excited to do something to help my fellow man, I had my parents sign off on the permission slip and marched proudly into the auditorium where they had me fill out another form before sitting down to submit my donation. The form, in triplicate was about 8 1/2 x 14, mostly demographic information and 2/3rds of the way down the page there was a section that stated “Ethnicity”. First question in that section: “Are you of Haitian Decent?” Me, back then? I PROUDLY checked off “YES”. I was never NOT proud of my heritage. But I was also a little slow on the draw. When I finally got up to the nurses they shared every reason with me why I shouldn’t give blood. “Oh… it looks like you’re coming down with a cold.” “Your blood iron is a little low.” “You seem like you’re feeling under the weather, maybe you should sit this one out.” I almost thought nothing of it until my friend Jean came and told me they said the same thing to him… and a handful of other Nouveau Haitians (1st Gen American Born) stated they got the run around too. Then it made sense to me. We had been “profiled” by that little question on the form. It was so ingrained in the masses minds that we were to blame that it had made it on to a form that designates willful giving to help save lives. I was so hurt, I vowed NEVER to donate blood in this country ever again.

In another instance in my life that burns this sentiment deep in my heart, walking into my building one day, I saw a man talking to someone outside before entering the building. I caught a hint of a familiar accent, but I’d never seen this particular man before. The Haitians in my building were all “family” – everyone watched each others kids. As far as we were concerned, all the kids were “cousins” and the moms and dads were “aunts” and “uncles”. I figured he was coming up to see one of our families. We both got into the elevator alone and as the doors closed, I asked him shyly and with respect “Hello sir, are you Haitian?” His reaction will never leave me. He started to back into the corner…. as if I was going to do something to him. I had to quickly allay his fear, “No, no no…. I’m Haitian too…. I heard your accent…” Immediate relief washed over him and he said ‘Yes! yes I am! Oh, wonderful – where are your parents from, do you speak Kreyol…. ” all the regular parts of the conversations between countrymen.

We weren’t always on Eastern Parkway waving our blue and red on Labor Day (think about it – those of you who’ve been around long enough). For a VERY long time, Haitians on a whole were ASHAMED because what the media had pinned on us and we kept to ourselves. I hate to hear that Haitians only come out now because Wyclef made it cool to be Haitian. We come out now because America’s memory of the pain they inflict is a short term one. And we were finally allowed to just live and be proud of who we are and where we came from.

My post is not directed at Cipha, really. I don’t agree with what he said, but I also don’t believe that he understood the magnitude. My post is more so to those who have reacted with “It was just a joke, get over it.” My question to them is – then when is enough enough? At what point do a people rally against insult and injury? When they start to stone us in the streets? Burn our houses? Bomb our land? Then? Then is it alright to rally together to tell the world, “HEY – STOP IT. WE ARE A PROUD PEOPLE and will NOT stand for your slander.” No. I think this is enough for us to be angry. And now, those of you who read my blog know why. Especially after the year we’ve had. Truly in poor taste to kick a people while they’re down. But… some places have a history of that.

*

Alone in a Crowd

I’m in the Lou. St Louis that is for my sorority’s national convention. So far this trip hasn’t been the best one and I’ve found myself questionning why I broke my neck to be at THIS one. Of course by the time I complete the question in my mind, I remember the reasons I told myself about being at this convention and I suppose it makes sense that I thought those things when I booked my flight.

Getting here was the absolute worst. The hubby and I got a little cocky about how much time it would take to get to the airport. So we woke up, worked out, finished packing and got in the car to get to the airport with about 55 minutes b4 the flight. Well… Thanks to a misguiding sky cap, we ended up waiting on a “trouble ticket” line for 40 min (there goes my flight) and had to spend an additional 110 dollars to secure a seat on the next flight out which was a full 6 hours later. After I threw a mental tantrum, I recomposed myself to the notion that now I’d be able to complete all that I’d run out of time to do: manicure / pedicure; shop for white shoes; get my toiletries etc. All the while spending more time with the hubby

So we began towards the city, feeling resolved and comforted that there was a silver lining to all of this. As we waited our turn to pay the toll at the entrance of the Midtown tunnel, an airport transportation van that was directly in front of us fancied himself wanting to just…. Back up. Fast. And onto the bumper and hood of my car. We honked and yelled and couldn’t understand what the hell he was thinking but there we were – in the midsts of a car accident. Luckily, about 6 police officers at the gate were our witnesses so we’re totally not at fault. But it cost us another hour or so to detain the guy (um, yeah, cause he was going to drive away) and write up the report. We still kept a light heart. We got to the city where I luxuriated in my long overdue mani pedi then went shopping for white shoes and a carryon bag to pack add’l items in. By the tinme we were done, it was 1:30. Next flight was at 6, but we flew out anyways. I didn’t want to take any chances. Got to the airport around 2 and checked in and cooled my heels till the flight which left on time, was uneventful and quiet.

Upon arriving at St. Louis, I got a cab and traveled to my hotel. The cabbie was wonderfully pleasant and reminded me of Daddy. He gushed proudly about his two boys who are graduating – one from high school and one from college. He was from a country right in the area of Darfur and was making his life and living with his family in the Lou.

Got to the hotel and sought out my chapter. They were hanging out and cutting it up as I expected which put me at ease. The next day was the first plenary and I was ready.

Now… The post about Boule and all the happenings won’t take place publicly on my blog. All I can and will say is that based on the events of this conference I can submit with all assurance that 1) I will NEVER, as long as it’s in my power, miss another conference. 2) if I can help it – I’ll always be a voting delegate. 3) the happenings in session were worth every penny of the 1600+ dollars it took to get me there (not including the shopping it took to get me looking the part). No one could have EVER narrated with sufficient detail and emotion all that took place over this past week. Worth. Every. Penny.

Unlike past conferences, the prevailing feeling for me in the beginning was lonliness. I spent a LOT of time on my own. I ate breakfast alone every morning. Lunches were usually the same with the exception of a few instances. I remember conference time being very busy with visits and hang outs and suite parties hosted by me and sights to see and folks to visit. But… This one was so quiet. The only people that shook up the alone feeling for me were Sharon and her total willingness to drop everything and cool out with me upon request and an impromtu visit from Tiff who hung out with me and we chatted for hours, then danced and strolled at some parties and then hung out till the wee hours of the morning talking some more, drinking cocktails and eating bad food. In a big way, any other time I had to spend alone didn’t feel so bad after that. Yet again, leave it to my original team mates and true heart sisters to unexpectedly and even unintentionally save my sense of sisterhood and closeness. Thanks, Tiff and Sharon

Well, I’m on the flight home now and I cannot wait. I miss my hubby and his skin. I miss NY water and how it doesn’t completely irritate me. I miss knowing where I want to go and getting there of my own volition. I miss the ability to identify crazy in my own home town (cause crazy does NOT look the same everywhere). I miss my mommy and her pictures so I can stop thinking that BAM resembles her and agonizing over that. I’ve not been so homesick in so long and I really hope I have a while before feeling this way again.

*

On the Culture of Taking a Life

I’ve been preoccupied with this story….

http://www.nj.com/hudson/index.ssf/2010/04/3_charged_in_murder_of_jersey.html

At the time that I’m posting this… it’s the most recent and updated story about the killings and the captures.

My heart breaks every time I think about Michael and Nia. Even though I did not know them personally… I know people who knew them. I know people who were at the engagement party the night that they were murdered. I feel their pain. And I feel the NATURAL HUMAN EMPATHY. How can you think of the story and not??? 25 and 27. Just starting out their lives. Deciding they wanted to spend that life together. Meet with all their closest friends to celebrate that event. Just to be offed by some MINDLESS FUCKING KIDS.

*taking a deep breath*

That same human empathy leads me to think of those kids. I finally saw their pictures today. Something about looking in the face of a criminal accused of doing something heinous… I need to see if there is any connection between their countenance and their thought process. I’m usually let down. I looked into the faces of these kids… because… they’re kids. 19 years old. When I was 19… I was just getting settled into year 2 of college. Deciding my major. Actively pursuing pleding AKA. Beginning a brand new love relationship that looked promising. THE FURTHEST THING from my mind? Was stealing / killing / carjacking. But then I had parents at home who had migrated here away from their homeland… just to TRY to give me a better chance. And I had to do something with that. Even if it was only up to a point (and that point was my Bachelor’s… after that, I told Mom & Dad that I would do my own thing). I had to do something positive with that…. make that… MEAN something to them… if not me.

So I thought about the support system for those kids. When Darmelia’s mom gave birth to her… when she named her and looked into her face… did she wish greatness upon her? “I hold in my arms the next great Speaker of the House…” or “I’ve just given birth to a future President of the Unites States.” Hell… was her mom even AROUND??? Or was she too busy chasing behind her youth that Darmelia and her brother might have robbed of her to actually RAISE her? I’d have to say no as her brother Ronald “Diddy” Lawrence was also in the family business of taking lives as he did for 2 people in February in Jersey City. I did a search for Latonia Bellamy on Facebook… just to see. But my co-worker told me something about how as soon as your arrested it seems that they take down all your social networking pages. Doubtful? Because I can’t see the government working that fast to do ANYTHING sometimes. A Latonia Bellamy did come up. But it wasn’t one of the assailants. It was a woman my age… who’s Wall was replete with status messages of upliftment and encouragement for the next person. Under her description where folks would normally put their little life’s mission statement, she proudly exclaims that she is all about “helping people in the community facing hardships with Rent, Security, furniture, Food, Clothing, Employment, Resume, Etc.” Maybe the 19-year old Latonia’s alternate reality doppelganger… Who she could have been if steered in the right direction. Maybe? But no. And then there was Shiquan. The boy in the crew. Shares the same last name as Latonia… but they’re both 19… so unless their twins… or Irish twins… maybe different families. They don’t seem to live in the same place according to the reports so I have to imagine they got to know each other the few days they were in school together because they sat one behind the other. I told my coworker that if you put a suit on the boy, gave him a fresh cut and imagined him in an auditorium full of young, eager minds talking about the future and higher education…. IT’S NOT THAT FAR from the imagination. It’s not even far to imagine him having made SOME mistakes in life… maybe having a misdemeanor but wanting to do right… maybe a baby to take care of… and interning somewhere to get his foot in the door to make a better future. Look at his face. Can’t you see that too???

But, no. They’re all just criminals. MURDERERS. THIEVES. The LOWEST of the low.

There HAS to be something said for environment in this. About their upbringing and discipline. The institution of structure where there no longer exists a standard one in society. Parenting isn’t something you can do for a few years and then hope it rides out into the child’s future. My parents were PARENTING ME up until their very last. I was still getting invaluable advice AND structure. (aside… I really? had amazing parents… i am truly blessed and i miss them terribly). It’s also not something that you can slack on for x amount of years and then miraculously show up when the kid is 17 and expect for it to take effect. I’m assuming the worst about their environment. It was the environment of the unreal. Where taking a life is just as significant as it is on the tv shows they watch. It’s easy… look… just pull the trigger. *cut scene* And that stuff they own? They’re too good for that stuff… so take it too. *roll the credits* And if we get caught… “SO. WHAT.” Jail is jail is jail. They’ve likely been in a cell in their minds all their lives. So this is a manifestation of their thoughts. And they’re ready for them.

Look at their picture again. Don’t you SEE the lack of connection between what they’ve done and how they feel?

That’s not Human.

My deepest sympathies go out to the families of Michael Muchioki and Nia Haqq. I have no words to offer that would ever comfort and as far as I am from the situation, I’m hurting deeply.

I hope these people are brought to justice. I hope that maybe one day… perhaps the light of TRUE realization will go off in their minds about what they’ve done… Because it’s probably as surreal to them as it is to the families that have to reconcile the light of bright stars in their lives being mindlessly dimmed.

*

Fight Alone

They’re all going to frown at you… they’re all going to frown at you…
Brows furrowed and arms crossed.
Fuming at you for wrongs not personally done to them
But it’s their job.

I’m standing very alone in a situation that calls for backup. But I don’t have much anymore these days. Just my own heart and mind telling me I can stand strong and be strong. And may be that’s all I need. I need to assert myself against a claim formerly made by Cary that I was not the stuff of marriage material. I AM… I can be. I’m always ascending. And I can prove it. Now if others besides me could just believe it for a moment. I could change the world.

I hope who I speak to on Monday has a heart. And if not … I am ready to appeal to the bottom lines.

Please God. Be on my side for this.

*

Dead To Us

Happy New Year, everyone… as is customary, the only thing that can seem to shake me out of my silent streak is a particularly harrowing dream that requires documentation. I haven’t blogged as of recent because keeping busy had kept my mind from exploding. I fear sitting still too long will force all that has happened in the last three years and three weeks to come slamming to the front of my life’s car as if I hit the breaks. I can’t afford to have that happen, so I apply steady pressure to the accelerator. Sometimes, you miss the sign that says “BUMP”….

Again in this dream, I focus in on the point where there is a massive pomp and circumstance. We’re in quite a grand ballroom where many a gala are taking place. Parties here… wedding there… and look… they just rolled that maroon casket over to the Veranda room…

Casket?

I’m chasing down the Maitre’d because somethings amiss in our room. There isn’t enough of something… something is missing… something ain’t right… and he has to come fix it now. We enter the room where we’re having our event and I’m having some small talk with the Maitre’d about how many grand affairs everyone is having tonight at this fine establishment and he was sure to agree with everything I said. Our ballroom was the GRANDEST… high ceiling, gold gilded walls, cameo shaped portraits and red velvet curtains with gold tassles. Waiters milling about and all the guests fancily decked out in black. After a few people clear the view… there it is. In the center of the room at the head of the dancefloor… a sight to see… My mother’s casket lifted up on some contraption so it was high up off the ground, exalted for all to see. And the Maitre’d walks right over to it. and opens up the top. The part of my mind in the dream that’s still based in reality and fact holds back an open mouthed scream because… WHY IS HE DOING THIS??? But it’s quickly calmed by the part of my mind that’s completely entrenched in this dream and knows this has to happen and is normal. Out of it steps a lovely… in tact… comfortably slimmer… MOBILE… younger… Mommy. Adorned in the same pretty pink dress… her last dress – the one we buried her in, she steps all the way down the stairs as the admiring audience claps and she smiles and acknowledges them with a very professional Miss America wave. She notices me off to the side comes to hug me. And I hear her say CLEARLY, “Vicky…. Vicky… ” I hear HER voice… as if she was trying to wake me. Same voice I haven’t heard in a year and some… clear as a bell… like I’ve not actually forgotten what it sounds like. And I throw my arms around her. GOD she smells good. Mommy ALWAYS smelled good… And I held her tight… for a long time, yearning for her to say something again, so I could feel that familiar vibration of her voice from her body to mine. That sweet sensation that ALL babies live for. But she broke the embrace first. She touched my face and then went milling about to socialize. I was in a trance. I followed her around like a little puppy dog, always staying one or two steps behind… but just far away enough to see her face clearly… see her smile… enjoy her ways. As the night drew to a close, it was time for her to go back…

Back? Back where??

She started to climb up the display case again and laid back down in the casket. They closed the torso portion… and as they prepared to closed the top part… I saw her face become angry… sad… confused… And I immediately thought “she’s not going to like this part one bit.” They began to crank the pillow down and her face lit up in protest… “What are you doing??” She yelled at the Maitre’d. He replied softly that it was just for the night and tomorrow she’d be back, but they have to “store” her this way. I rushed to her side to assure her that everything was going to be fine and she shot me a look that said, You KNOW it’s not going to be fine… but I’ll let it slip for this once…. They cranked her head down and shut the casket face. Guests solemnly left the scene as someone announced that it would be at the same time and place tomorrow, don’t forget.

As I’m walking out of the ballroom, I get a phone call from a number I don’t recognize. I pick up the phone… “Hello?” It’s her… “Vicky… there’s a bag by the air conditioner, it says something about Safety Deposit on the front of the bag… either way… it’s full of bills from last month and I need you to bring it to me tomorrow so that I can rectify some of these bills that have been laying around since I’ve been gone” Oh no…. how do I tell her… we lost the apartment… and in the process had to throw away… EVERYTHING because there was no way for us to assign meaning and importance to the things that belonged to her and dad w/o their minds and sentimentality to tell us otherwise. I tried breaking the news to her. “Mommy, you’ve been gone for over a year now… we did throw some stuff away…” There was a hearkened silence on the other end of the line. I tried to allay her fears because the last thing I wanted to do was upset this dear spirit. “But you know what, I’ll look anyway – what did the bag have in it again?” She started to speak.. but it was broken up by deep breaths. Almost like …. she’s hyperventilating. “Mom…. Mommy… calm down… you’re losing it because you’re in the casket… try to take deep breaths mommy….” I imitated the deep breaths for her so she could follow… When she calmed down enough, she asked “Why am I in here? I want to go home….” “It’s just for today and tomorrow. Once those days are over, you’ll go back…” “Back to where,” she asked bewildered, “I want to stay here…” Some rule that I can’t articulate in this dimension of real life had me knowing that was impossible. These things only lasted for 2 days and that was it. She started to get irate… “I want the bag with my bills in it… I need to rectify these bills because I know you and your brother haven’t.” Upset and hurt, I raised my voice, “MOM… the bills are gone. We threw all the papers away…” in my mind I lined up all the things I would have to admit to now… moving her china cabinet to Brooklyn, losing her apartment where she lived for the last 38 years of her life, throwing away her precious Home Shopping Club purchased Capodimonte…. I continued “Mommy… you were dead to us for a year… What would you have had us do? Hold on to everything on the off chance that you’d come back and stay? This doesn’t always happen you know… and even in this rare exception, you’re not staying…” Silence. Understanding. She replied softly almost as if … she was fading into a vast distance… “But I want to stay…….”

In the narthex of my mind between the exit of that dream and the entrance of my reality, I comforted myself with the knowledge that she didn’t WANT to stay. Life here on this earth had become unbearable for her between her physical ails, loss of her mom… loss of her husband… She WANTED to leave. And we wanted more for her to stay than she did.

There’ll be no more sleep for me tonight.

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