Narrative

There were always things she knew which absolutely fascinated and astounded me. Things that would make you wonder how it was possible for her to know. Like her knowing the lineage of my soon to be husband without me telling her, like her overlooking the black to see the light of my way. She has always been my favorite, my confidant, my everything.  Even when it was too hot, she showed me the cool of her nature, the dance and lightness of her step, and the way of making honey so sweet. And how I loved her, and do still. Though my mind wonders so far from those days of youth and ignorance, of need and spoilage, she somehow is always right there. When I speak and when I respond, when I hear and when I step. When I keep a dime in my pocket though I’m broke – I always look good per her command. I always keep things in order even when they are falling apart, and I always have an out though others feel trapped.

For she was a woman with a plan. And although her plans never worked according to her liking, there was nonetheless “more than one way to skin a cat.” Never afraid to try and never afraid to say and do she allowed more than enough rope and indeed I did hang myself, on more than one occassion. But though I did, and she knew, it was always her that I ran to. “Even if you commit murder, you’d better come to me first” she would say, and many times I would go to her. Her ways were amazing and mysterious and magical and damned frightening, but she was honest and frank and had no problem cussing you out before telling you how much she loved you dearly. I was hers; her last child of her favorite and most beloved baby girl child. Her grandchild taken as her own.

So when I decided to grow up and overlook the surroundings of her aging years; the reality of her mortality, and frailty of those who once cared for me, I went to see her on her sick bed. Oh the shock and horror to see my beloved unable to dance with me as she once did. For her not to hold my first born so much in her favor. There was not a word I could say, nor idea to formulate in my mind but to tell her I was sorry. Sorry for my selfishness to not be able to overlook, to forgive, to be forbearing. Sorry for not expressing my gratitude often enough, not being a better person, not achieving as she desired. That no words could express my love and honor of her, and my incapacity to thank her enough for my life, for her sacrifice for her love of me.