Memories

Family Memories

I was born in the early 90’s in Upstate New York, the last stop on the Metro North line. It’s unclear why this is so humorous to me. I just imagine my family moving from North Carolina to Brooklyn, New York. Then one day deciding, nope, this isn’t for me. Then riding the Metro North line as far as it can go, getting off, and settling in.

Anyway, my identical twin sister and I were the youngest born to my mother. Two for one.  Half of four girls. The oldest, 8 years our senior. Our second oldest sister, Sara, has down syndrome, she is 3 years older than us. I can remember my mother often referring to her as “special”, leaving me to wonder what I needed to do to be special. I have grown to realize how truly special she is.  There is nothing that can worry her, no amount of fear that can paralyze her or keep her down. There is no point in which she stops reaching for a future. I still want to be like her when I grow up.

Fire

During those early years, my sisters and I often piled into our mother’s bed to sleep. And at some point during the night, she would slip out of the bed. On one particular night, we were asleep in our mother’s room. Our heads were at the foot of her bed, when my oldest sister jumps up and starts yelling down the stairs. “FIRE”, MOM THERE IS A FIRE! My mother shouts back, “GET YOUR SISTERS”.

The urgency in their voices propelled us from our sleep, and down the stairs. We scurried down the hall to our Aunt Nita’s house. A towel left on a lamp ignited the fire. From what I have been told, it was Sara who left the towel. What I do know is that, once we were safe at my aunt’s house my mother went back to our apartment. I guess to protect our stuff and make sure that the firefighters did their job. I was nervous. The fire was contained, and we did not lose much.

Movement

When I was in kindergarten, our family moved from an apartment to a two-family house. My Aunt Nita moved into to the second-floor unit, and we live on the first floor. We moved from Rip Van Winkle, a subsidized apartment building. Aunt Nita had lived down the hall from us, for as long as I can remember. While packing to move I can remember needing to do my homework.

They ushered me to sit on a rug rolled up and tied together by some sort of twine. The worksheet was a review of the letter “P”. “Color the pig pink and write the letter P”, read the directions. My mother handed me a red crayon. Imagine my confusion. My protesting was met with “color lightly, and the pig will be pink”.  Even though I was using a red crayon. She was wrong. Yet as a parent now, I relate so hard to this.

By the time I was six, I lost both of my parents to the AIDs epidemic. I was too young to understand, or to even fully remember that time of my life. Yet, the feelings of uncertainty, and loss still stick with me. I do remember the last time we walked with my mother into the hospital. A shell of the women that I once knew. Her skin sagged and wrinkled, her body frail. She was only 36.

And I was 6, 6 and about 10 days to be exact, the day she died.

She is gone

My Aunt Nita stood outside of the school building after school as she did so many times. She had been picking us up for some time, since our mother was sick, and in and out of the hospital. But on this day, she was quieter than usual, we (my twin sister and I) knew something was wrong. Yet, our youth blinded us from what was right in front of us. We quietly walked home; it was only about a 5-minute walk.

As we approached our brown and yellow, two-family home on Manitou Ave, we noticed that the street was lined with familiar cars. This was odd. We went inside. My grandmother, aunts, and cousins filled our home. Our eldest sister was visibly upset. The mood was grim. They took us into our room away from everyone. I cannot recall whether it was my grandmother, or my aunt who delivered the news. And I guess it does not really matter.  In our room, 6 years old, we learned that our mother was gone. Gone before we could ever really know her.

The funeral was more of the same. Air too thick to breathe, the sounds of mourning, and a sea of faces. Some faces were familiar but there were too many strangers to count. The overflowing crowd spilled from Beulah Baptist Church onto the streets as it reached beyond its capacity. We were greeted by somber looks, and quiet condolences.  I can remember just wanting it to be over.

Post-funeral

People visited our lives, for quite some time after my mother passed. We received an overwhelming number of cards, food, and fruit baskets. But as the days went by, slowly the people began to disappear back into their daily lives.

We, the four sisters, were uncertain about what the future held. Aunt Nita and Ma (my grandmother) took charge over us.

These few recounts of my childhood are almost all the memories that I have of my time with my mother. I guard these memories with vigor because they are mine, untainted by the time passed or the nature of storytelling.

Growing up without a mother is strange. I felt different. Almost ashamed to mention that my mom was gone. Careful not to invite the somber look of strangers, or the silent condolences that will not be remembered.

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