Motherhood is the only state of the union, I never been in.
My own was an accidental parent.
A case of immaculate deception.
Mama never told me very much, so I never forgot it.
We never shared no sort of bond at all.
She farmed me out to sitters shortly after I danced out of her womb.
There is little recollection left of those early minders.
I was blessed to have been in the care of a woman who was my true mama in all but name.
Ms. Wheater was black.
We called them colored in those days.
I seen no difference between us.
She had four kids of her own, and a man who brought in just enough to feed three.
She hired out. I was left with her family.
For nine years.
I ate with them, played with them, went to school with them.
Did a lot of crying out my fears and frustrations on Ms. Wheater’s skirts.
Christmas was spent with her family.
On birthdays, she always made little unfrosted cakes.
Sometimes I get a handmedown from one of her daughters.
A pair of her son’s brown boots, once his toes had shot holes through them.
I realized later that her life was very hard.
You’d have never known it by looking at her though.
She always clean and smiling.
She couldn’t read, so I helped her do that when I got old enough.
She sang all the time, returning my favor by releasing my inner voice.
When I was about 12 or there abouts, her family had to move away.
The Great Depression was in full bloom causing mass migration.
Folks trekked elsewheres to find jobs, houses, even food they could afford.
Her oldest boy got work out West, in an oil field or some such.
They packed up and followed him there, hoping for a better life.
I cried to the depths of my soul when she told me.
I come to believe she was my mama.
But she wasn’t.
She held me for a long time, while I sobbed; humming softly, soothingly.
At last, drained of tears, I looked up at her wonderful face, which I adored more than any on Earth.
I said, “How am I going to live now?”
Those large eyes shimmered, staring straight into my heart.
“Everytime you sing, Lu, I’ll hear you. Think on that. I’ll always be listening for your song.”
We never saw each other again.
Shortly after, I went to work in a brothel, as a runner for the girls.
Sipped my first taste of likker, and started shopping for bad men.
The rest is history.
Losing Ms. Wheater was the death of my childhood.
Over the years, I real glad she not around to see what a mess I done to my life.
Thinking of her high opinion made me ashamed.
When I had my first Comeback, I tried to find her, to no avail.
Folks blew away with the dust back then.
All you who have a mother who loves you should feel very, very lucky.
Spend more than one day a year telling her how grateful you are.
There ain’t nothing scarier or more sacred than birthing a baby then sacrificing everything for it’s upbringing.
Civilization would be just rubble if it weren’t for the Moms keeping it all going.
I love you, Ms. Wheater.
Happy Mother’s Day
artwork by codifyer