Yesterday was Mama’s Birthday.
Chloe Gladys Augusta Bowman died 18 years ago and I still remember the last day.
“Bethsheba…come read the scripture to me, please.”
The sweet sound of her voice still rings in my right ear. I sit at the edge of the bed and begin to read from “the good word.”
Don’t remember the text. A few minutes pass and I look up. Mama is trying to swallow and her face is twisted.
She slurs “B-e-t-h- s-a-y- t-h-e- A-L-P-H-A-B-E-T.”
“A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I,J…” and so on.
Mama tries and she only gets to the letter C.
“I- t-h-i-n-k- I- h-a-d- a- s-t-r-o-k-e.”
I dial 9-1-1.
“K-e-e-p- t-a-l-k-i-n-g- t-o- m-e.”
For the first time, I am scared that Mama wasn’t going to make it or maybe I just knew. But all the other times while I watch the tubes circulate her blood thru her left arm while she sat in her in-home dialysis chair, I never thought she would leave me.
But this one moment, I just knew and I held on to every memory; her bedroom wall lined in strips of gold like wall-paper, rose colored chair, beige curtains, teal green bed sheet, and perfume lined across the dresser top.
I looked into her eyes and told Mama we’re going to see Alvin Ailey.
I was 20 years old, worked part-time at The Walt Disney Store, and didn’t have tickets.
The ambulance came and Mama didn’t return home; her heart beat for seven days and when she took her last breath, I was not there.
I was huddled in her closet caressing her clothes, inhaling her scent, packing every smell and word in my memory bank.
Happy Birthday Mama!
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