30th March, 20??
Happy Mothering Sunday,
Dear Mom.
Dear Dia,
Today is a Sunday. Not just any Sunday. It's 'THE' Sunday. The day set aside to honor mothers all over the world.
Another day to be reminded that she's no more. A day to sit still in a pew and refrain from shattering in front of all gathered.
Mom had died on the 11th day of November and since then we've been attending mothering Sundays as a memorial of her death and the life she had lived. When she had been alive, we in fact attended but it had been different. She had been alive and now she isn't.
It's been precisely two hundred and ten Sundays since the first one we went without her. A thousand and six hundred days since she died. Four mothering Sundays since her demise. Three, I had been in attendance. One hundred and four Sundays after the last one. And 2 years and ten days I've been dreading this.
I should have known that no matter how many times or days I avoided it, this day would still come. I would have to attend and there won't be any excuse this time. Not when dad is still pissed at me. Not when I had promised Grannys last year that I would attend this year.
I didn't write yesterday because I had been rehearsing what I would say this time around. After messing up two years ago, this would be my chance to redeem myself and make it up to mom.
I still remember it, standing on that dais. Behind the wooden lectern with about 500 pair of eyes staring at me. 500 pair of ears pricked, waiting to hear what I would say. It was the first time, I had agreed to a speech. Other years, I had sat while dad, Grannys and all those who knew her, climbed that podium and spoke of her. I had avoided it the first year and that was the second year, it was customary that I said something.
It wasn't that I couldn't say a few things about her, things that made her special but standing there, I froze. Minutes passed but all I could do was grip the edges of the lectern tighter. My knuckles turned white, murmurs ensued, dad and Grannys kept encouraging me to say something but I remained mute. It wasn't until the tears fell did I utter loudly "Fuck it!" and dashed out of there.
Imagine that, Dia. Voicing out such vulgar word in God's presence. Standing behind the holiest of places– the altar and in front of the whole congregation. They must have thought me of the devil even though Granny M ensures me that they don't. According to her, they understood my plight. I had lost my mom two years ago and I wasn't ready to accept her demise.
After that day, I haven't shown my face in their midst again. Two years, I have managed to say no to Grannys but this year, I was to attend. Donning one of my best, a Sissy Spacek black gown, black Lita boots, a black pill box hat, obsidian earrings, a pearl necklace and a black Chanel boy flap to complete the look. I dressed to impress, if my speech doesn't go as planned, then I would be remembered by my looks.
It was customary for those attending as a memorial to wear black, so Henry wore black pants, a long sleeved shirt and black wedged sneakers. Felicia garbed a dark suit with a slingback pumps. Dad on the other hand had on an ebony suit with matching black loafers.
This was the first time, Henry and his mom would be attending with us, I didn't like it but I wasn't exactly on dad's good graces to exert demands. So I kept my scowl as they tagged along.
Waiting on the stone stairs of the church, Grannys stood waiting for us. With each step I took towards them, my heart pounded with dread. Already people were staring, at my appearance or in recollection of what transpired the last time. I didn't know. But I walked on, deriving strength from mom's words and her flashcards, especially #5 and #11.
Granny M's words as she hugged me did nothing to calm my nerves, even as she held my hands and led me inside, I couldn't shake out the dread that coursed through my veins.
Even when seated in the fifth pew on the right between Granny M and P, I wasn't shielded from the stares and their glares. Dad, Henry and Felicia were seated behind us, trying to look like they didn't care about the whispers our presence roused.
I'm certain dad must have filled them in on my fuck up, yet I wondered if it was that or the stares that they fought to keep under the mask on their faces. This maybe the house of God. It maybe a holy place, but that doesn't mean that people won't remain the judgy little bitches they are. As the murmurs and whispers thrived from lapels and hats, I relaxed a bit. Perhaps I wasn't the center of attention, mayhaps it was Felicia's hand hooked around dad's and Henry's proximity to both, that was drawing all the glims.
The walls, the edge of pews, pillars, the altar and arches held garlands of flowers. The marble floors were polished to a high shine, even the wooden lectern and sculptures seemed to have been freshly oiled. Everything spoke of the holiness and reverence accorded to the being whose dwelling we inhabited.
On the first pew on the left sat a family of three, a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit that seemed to be hanging awkwardly, his arms draped around a ginger-haired girl and a dark-haired boy. They all wore black like us and so were many other groups hunched in different pews.
The eyelets on the garlands of flowers on the walls held pictures of women, mothers– old and young. They all had one thing in common; they were late. It didn't take long to spot my mom, hers was a few paces from the altar. That was one of her best pictures. Dad had captured it on a sunny day when she was planting tomatoes in the garden. She was kneeling with a straw sunhat on, her face tipped up to the sun. The sun framed her perfect face and cast a halo on her gold curls. Her breezy flower-imprinted dress, billowing in the wind.
Dad had said that she was an angel sent to the earth on a mission but had fallen for a human. And that rare moment in the garden was one of those times her true glowing form showed. I think he was right, perhaps she was taken from us prematurely because she failed in her mission by staying behind.
Silence settled like a chilling phantom as the priest mounted the dais and the service began. Every item was mother-themed; the hymns, the songs by the choir, the sermon, the prayers even. But as people prayed, some whispering, others yelling, I remained silent.
These people didn't seem to realize that no one was listening, no one was up there. I had once believed someone great and mighty ruled from the clouds, but after mom's death, I would be the world's biggest fool if I wasn't none the wiser from that experience. I had called upon the one whom these people prayed to, and no one answered.
I remember the day of mom's funeral when I decided to try again. I had stared at her pale face, willing those shut eyes to pry open. Granny M had told me that this God could raise the dead and all one required was faith. So, I had believed it could happen, building my faith like a towering castle, imagining it, seeing it, yet nothing happened. Even as they lowered her to the depths, I kept believing, listening for a bang on the coffin as my mom resurrects, all to no avail.
I watched and listened as they prayed for mothers all over the world, the expecting, the lactating, the single, the divorced, the young, the old and the late. Who would tell them that there was no one on the receiving end, that their words were paid no heed? Of course, it wasn't going to be me. They would have to learn the bitter truth themselves.
After the prayers came varieties, there were talkshows, debates, mimic plays where children played their mothers, dress ups and other motherly games were displayed.
The memorial started after that, one by one, families of deceased mothers came to honor them with speeches, a poem, a song or any other way they choose fit. But the most painful of all was the family of three seated in the front pew on the left. The mourners' pew. They were the recent mourning family, and the stand like that of a painter, except in place of a canvas, the frame of a ginger-haired woman hanged, beautified by a garland of roses and lilies, was theirs. The stand stood now in front of the congregation, at the center, just like mom's had.
Like me, the girl was asked to come give a speech. Her dad had handed his very well and the boy was too young to be allowed such hand at a weighty display. The girl was roughly around my age, perhaps I was a year older, or she was a year older than me. Her ginger hair was framed under her broad black veiled fascinator and her vert eyes shone with tears as she climbed the dais.
Even before she reached the lectern, I knew she wasn't going to be able to say anything. I knew she was just like me. And as the moments drawled, I was right. She had started,
"My mom is… was a… um…"
She had choked down a sob after that, wiped her tears, adjusted her fascinator before meaning to continue… only that she couldn't. The strong arms of her father were already ushering her to her seat before she could try again.
Even as I write about it, I'm yet to fully grasp what had made me stand and approach the podium after the girl left. No one had called me up, it wasn't even our family's turn, yet I found myself in the same spot I had once, being like the ginger-haired girl. Though she had handed it better than I, at least she didn't make mention of any vulgar words.
I had been thinking of mom, her letter and her flashcards when the girl was ushered back to her seat. Especially her words on flashcards #2, #10, #12 and #15 where she told me to be kind, compassionate, understanding, help others in need and make a difference. Perhaps it was the thought or could it be mom herself, for if there was ever a place for her spirit to be more alive, it was in that service.
It took a few seconds for me to regret my actions. The weight of their stares caused me to begin to cower, their whispers and murmurs for me to mutter shit under my breath. Whatever had prompted me to take to the dais left me as I stood there under their watchful glares, gripping the edges of the lectern so tight, it could have burst into splinters a moment too soon.
I had faced downwards dreading to meet anyone's eyes, still muttering 'shit' under my breath when I heard the idiot scream,
"Come on, Anna, you've got this."
Forced to look up, I saw Henry whistling with his thumb and forefinger in his mouth, beaming at me and offering me a thumbs up. Dad was encouraging me with that "go-on" expression on his face, Grannys were blowing kisses and telling me similar things to the one Henry had screamed but theirs were more civilized and less loud. Felicia had her hands clasped, sitting forward and listening, waiting for me to say something or make a fool of myself, I don't know which.
If there were any pair of eyes that weren't on me before, they had made sure I was the magnet holding every glim. I don't know if it was their encouragement, no matter how wild, or the stares, or even the fact that the ginger-haired girl had stopped crying to join in the stare or the glance I took at mom's picture, but I started speaking.
I started by introducing myself and my family, even pointing at mom's picture for reference but the cacophony of voices saying,
"No need for that, child, you look just like her."
"Oh, we know child, we know you are Miranda's girl." and other similar remarks got me to continue.
I talked briefly about mom, how good and kind she was. A great mother she had been and still is. Told them about my 16th birthday, read mom's letter to them, said a few things about her flashcards. As I spoke, I held the stare of the ginger-haired girl, I stared into her green eyes and assured her of a mother's love. Their care and love that transcends death and the grave. How they would always keep a watchful eye over their children and never allow any harm to ruffle the curls of their hair.
And as I concluded by starting that my mom, like other moms, was an angel, making reference to what dad had said on that sunny day in the garden, which I know he won't allow me hear the end of it.
The whole congregation rose and clapped, some were wiping their eyes with a smile radiating on their faces. I hadn't even realized my speech was that emotional. As if that wasn't enough, I was crushed into a hug by the ginger-haired girl as I climbed down the dais.
People cheered me on as I reached for my seat, making all sorts of comments like,
"Your mama will be proud."
"You are her daughter, indeed."
"Child, you were exceptional up there."
"God bless you, child, for that emotional masterpiece."
And the comments raged on and on even as we said our goodbyes to Grannys, who hadn't stopped beaming with pride at their granddaughter.
Even as I write, a smile tugs at my lips. Indeed, mom would have been proud… no, she is proud wherever she is. Can't wait to meet her tonight in my dreams, till the next entry, nighty, night, Dia.