Dear Momma
Every year, October 1st I wake up in mourning — heavy with the longing and lingering weight of grief. My mind may forget the date, but my body remembers. Last year I couldn’t get out of bed. I cried in the shower, confused, until I looked at the calendar and realized this was the day my mother passed away.
So today, at 2 a.m., I sit in memoriam, writing and listening to Tupac’s Dear Mama. My mother loved music, so there will be a soundtrack to follow.
My cat, who never jumps on furniture, kept trying to curl up next to me. He always knows when something is wrong. My spirit was restless and weary — thinking about my mom. My mother was a beautiful, complicated soul, and she gave me a name in that same vein. She was stylish, stunning, magnetic, and had a walk that rivaled Naomi, Tyra and Miss J. She was a fiercely proud Black woman, that raged against her racially ambiguous look. Strangers would often ask, “Are you mixed or Spanish?” so this first story made sense.
My mom was quiet but loved telling me stories about her life. She wasn’t ashamed or shy about sharing a teachable moment. She told me about running away and her brief stay with a Puerto Rican family that left a special place in her heart — one that seemed to have seeped into my DNA in utero. She always said Puerto Rican people were some of the nicest, most welcoming people she had ever met. She taught me to carry pride in my very Spanish name, and she corrected anyone who didn’t say it right.
Here's the free friend link if you'd like to read the full story - thank you for reading.