The Daughter

It’s funny when you think back on it. Well, not funny but ironic. Isn't it?

She spoon-fed you your first meal. And you spoon-fed her—her last. Strawberry hospice yogurt. Smooth and joyless to the last mouthful. How it clawed at your heart—the way she was so eager to take it all in. Because so much was leaving her. Right before your eyes. A fire losing it’s light.

But oddly, you cherished the moment. You were there for her. As she had always been there for you.

You sat by her side. Said everything you wanted to say. You played music. Filling the pale green room with—melodic reassurances from Johnny Mathis, Aretha Franklin, and Mahalia Jackson. With every intention to look back on the moment with a weighted smile. A mother and her child. A daughter. A daughter still not ready to face the numbing, bitter truth that mother was...

A knock on the door startled your thoughts.

Before you could answer, a wreath of nurses circled her bed. Each buzzing with their own agenda. In military precision. Poking. Prodding. Some, stoic. Others acted with cautious dignity. Lifting her paper thin body.

A flinch of pain. And then a tender smile. Bridged with gratitude.

Mother’s soft, watering eyes, apologizing.

Your lungs filled with grief. A slow drowning then a burning. But you bottled it in. Still clinging to the slipping fingers of hope—that she will live and not...

“This is your stop,” your Uber driver says, “Trinity Baptist Church.”’ He pulls up to the rain soaked curb. You exchange final pleasantries, masking the lump of sorrow capsized in your stomach, and step out into the mica pageantry of the Upper West Side.

The rain has stopped. The city brine of days old garbage, exhaust fumes, and sewer steam—mark your nostrils. You’re not in L.A. anymore.

The burden of restrained tears saddles your aching bones as you approach the church doors. Every step you take—lags. Pulling you back.

You look up into the low hanging gray clouds. Take in a deep breath— of cold damp air. And wonder how many suns it will take to break open the sky.

“Hello. Welcome. Come on inside.” Her voice tingles through the ashen mist. This is the pastor’s wife. You remember her photo on the church website. She stands between the open church doors. A muskrat of a woman. Her curled, thick cheeks lift into a perfunctory God is good smile. “You must be the daughter.”

And it hits you. A soft, spongy knowing that molds itself around you and sets. You will always be your mother’s daughter. Her departure from this world. From this side of eternity, does not alter this reality. A glimmer of promise lights within you. And floats.

The Pastor’s wife’s squatty body jiggles beneath her silk blue dress as she ushers you inside the gothic sanctuary. Telling you how you’re the first to arrive.

Your brothers are on the way. The funeral will begin in an hour. But this viewing is only for the family. Every word drones through your ears like electrified cicadas. Chipping away your resolve not to collapse under the finality of it all.

You enter the sanctuary. A prism of shock pixelates your view. A standing spray of white roses. An open casket. A body.

Your legs shudder. Your lungs condense. Your heart thunders under the realization. This is happening. You’re about to set eyes on your dead...

“Nuh, no-no.”

A towering frantic woman throws her body between you and the elevated mahogany casket. A human barricade in an oversized gray suit and cat eye framed glasses. The absurdity of the hectic woman’s outstretched arms and wide—open eyes. Stopping you. Barring you from access to your own mother. Her barbed audacity cuts to your core.

“Sorry. You can’t be here,” she says.

You back away. Heart stomping behind your shock.

It’s hard to process. Too many cataclysmic thoughts pounding and colliding. You take several steps back. Until the distance between you and the woman who brought you into this world is an endless corridor. Expanding. Pulling. Swallowing light. To a pin hole. And then nothing.

Heavy hands grip your shoulders. Push you forward, back into the open light. And you realize behind you is the pastor’s wife. Guiding you back to the altar. She gently chastises the woman. The self proclaimed guardian of the deceased. And explains—you are the daughter. That you do in fact belong. You belong to the woman in repose.

The bizarre woman’s discomposure is no consolation as she steps aside, apologetic. And now the path is clear.

So you proceed. Face the inevitable truth. You look down. And you see her. So still. Entombed in sleep. She wears her favorite midnight blue dress, dusted with specks of yellow. Her face tilted ever so slightly towards you. As if she knows you’re here. Welcoming you to embrace the truth.

Her right hand lays sweetly over the left. Folded like a heart. Her cotton white hair. A cloud of curls around her face. Her lips, an earthy rosette. Calm. Quiet.

You place your hand on top of hers. They’re barren and unyielding. Like the hands of the dolls you used to hold when you were a young girl. The coffee brown ones she brought you, with the closable lashy eyes. The ones you would mother and love just as she fully and completely mothered and loved you.

Mom. Her full body laugh. The way she hunched her round shoulders and bit down on her bottom lip when she danced. Her patchwork dinners. And delicious rum cake. Her ability to make everyone she knew feel treasured and loved.

And then it hits you. All at once. A deluge of tears. A guttural breaking down. Fountains of profound sadness. Saturate all of you. It takes your breath away. You close your eyes. So many questions. Everyone of them begins with why. You mentally exhaust yourself to make some sense of it. But ultimately you come into a quiet agreement that not every why reveals its secrets.

The people have arrived. All the family is here. Time for the procession to the altar. You stand in the back. Behind the two older brothers and their wives. And the other older brother and his girlfriend of the hour. And together you all walk. One somber line of those she left behind. Moving onward.

You all get to the seat of honor. The front row, reserved for her children. Her three sons and you—the daughter. But they make no room for you. In all your forty years. They never made room for you. You were always on the outside of their circle.

You stand there. Orphaned. Every eye watching your humiliation unfold. And everything in you—riots. The heat of your anger. The bitter tang of rage beneath your tongue. The kick in your stomach. Sharpens.

You step back. Sit in the second row with the grandkids. And watch the girlfriend receive condolences for your mother’s passing. You do everything in your power not to scream. Not to stand in between her and them. Not to cause a scene.

After the speeches and the songs. And the viewing. And the prayers. You're at the tippy end of your strength. Friends pull you into warm, long hugs. Aunties stroke your hair. A familiar squeeze to your shoulder brings you face-to-face with your— college ex?

Every memory of him. Of you and him together. Floods the pit of your stomach and rises to your aching heart. How did he know? Who invited him?

You’re not sure if you’re glad he’s here. Or if you're mad he’s here.

You manage a welcoming smile. And the two of you talk. That’s when you come to realize your old college roommate shared the news of your loss. That’s why he’s here. But he doesn’t offer condolences. Or a doleful embrace. Or any well wishes. Instead. With great pride and joy. He tells you he’s getting married. This is what he tells you at your mother’s...

An immediate sting. A sinking push. Spiraling. But you brave a smile. Congratulate him. Hold his hand. Pray for his new life as a husband and a father. Then it’s over. It’s all over. You skip the repast. Not in the mood for macaroni and mourning. You book an early flight back home.

The taxi ride to the airport is your promise to exhale. Putting it all behind you. Your thoughts—consumed with mom. How she was a champion for everyone. How she sometimes made herself so small so others could feel—so much bigger.

Then you realize, you see it, it’s so very obvious. The daughter.

You’re just like...