The Day My Mother Died
Someone took my picture, I was devastated.
People from the Upper Bay Baptist Church drove us to UCLA Medical Center to see our mother one last time. Entering her hospital room I felt like I was trespassing on private ground, barging in on the secret world of a mere acquaintance. Standing by her bed I wanted to be invited to come closer and at last take a place in her heart. Her eyes barely flickered with a faint spark of life and I held my breath so I wouldn’t blow it out. My unspoken thoughts begged her not to go I kept silent, waiting for her to spend her last words on me. There was little time left but there was enough for my mother to finally say, she loved me. That’s all I wanted to hear, all I ever wanted from her. But instead of reaching out her arms to hug her children for the first and last time, the ghostly phantom of a figure that was our mother, kept her distance unable to give us the one thing we so badly wanted. All my life, I had been jealous of the invisible impenetrable wall she surrounded herself with. Now, I envied death because it had a closer relationship with her than I ever did. She wrote a letter on her death bed asking God’s forgiveness. In the letter she promised, if He let her live she would do everything to be a better mother and finally protect us from our abusive father. She asked God to let her into Heaven. She was 36 years-old, I was 16 years-old.
I dropped a tear in the ocean. The day you find it is the day I will stop missing you.