I was so happy to see her I started to run up the stairs to her. I couldn’t wait to wrap my arms around her, kiss her. Then something happened that caught me off guard. My mother raised her voice at me. She never did that before. She was no longer smiling; she looked like she was frightened for me or trying to protect me from something. "NO" she said, and with disbelief in a whimpering voice I said Mommy I want to go with you, please take me with you, I promise to be good, I'm going to be a big girl. Please take me with you. "I can't” she said “you can't go with me this time baby." Why Mommy? Why? "I need you to listen to me; will you do that for Mommy?" In a trembling voice, trying not to cry I said yes Mommy I'm listening. "I want you to be a good little girl for Mommy, I want you to listen to your father, grandparents and do whatever they tell you to do. I will Mommy, you know I will. Suddenly I had this deep feeling of loss, like something was sucking the life out of me, something was wrong and I didn't know what it was or how to deal with it.
Now, here I was trying real hard to be a good girl, a big girl when suddenly I realized I didn’t want to be a good girl or a big girl if it meant being without my mother. NO! I DON'T WANT TO BE GOOD AND I DON’T WANT TO BE BIG, I WANT TO GO WITH YOU MOMMY. Then my mother very sweetly and lovingly said to me "you can't go with Mommy Baby.” My mother then turned towards the close door behind her and it was open, she then turned back towards me and said "I love you." I love you too Mommy, then she turned away and went through the door.
The front door slammed and woke me up from a nap on the couch. I was trying to make sense of it all. Was it a dream? My eyes were cloudy with tears and my face was wet. Was it, was it a dream? I could still feel my mother but I couldn’t see her. I could smell her perfume even but she wasn’t there. Perhaps Daddy could help me make sense of what had just happened. I ran up to my father to tell him the sad news. I told him that Mommy wasn’t coming home this time. My father then shouted "STOP!” I thought to myself she must be gone because before that day neither of my parents ever raised their voice at me. My father said "you shouldn't say that, Mommy is going to get better and she is going to come home.” Then I noticed my father had tears streaming down his face, it was then I realized for my father, sister and brother I had to do what my mother asked me to do. I had to be a good girl I had to be a big girl. The phone started ringing and my father went to answer I knew it was someone calling to say she had passed. At that moment I started thinking about the funeral and wondering how was I going to be good and big like she asked me to. I had to figure something out, I gave my word.
The funeral was just as I thought everyone was sad, crying walking around like the dead version of my mother was all they had to hold on to. It was this scene that helped me figure out how I was going to get through that day and every day of my life since. First I wasn't going to pay no respects at a casket. I didn't want the picture of my mother's lifeless body to replace memories of her when she was alive and well. Second, I chose to whenever I felt sad, alone I would think of how my mother's face would light up whenever she saw one of her children. At times if I try real hard I can conjure of the her smell of Dove Soap and l can remember the fun times we shared at family picnics, birthday parties and Marshall Hall or how in love she and my father was. But the memory that I hold onto the most is how lovely she looked at the top of those stairs. At the top of those stairs my mother looked at peace, she was no longer carrying the stress of being ill and trying to look like she wasn't for the sake of us. At the top of those stairs my mother looked happy in a way I hadn't seen her in a long time before you got to the top of those stairs.
When my father came to escort me down the aisle to pay my last respects a small voice in my head was saying no, the voice got louder and louder, NO, NO and just when the word was about to escape my lips my grandmother looked at my father and said “let the child mourn her mother in a way that is comfortable for her.”
Lois Zenobia Jenkins passed October 1968 at the age of 22 from stomach cancer. I was only 4 years old when she left me at the bottom of those stairs with memories of her that proved not to be final memories at all. And yes, here I am some 40 plus years later still trying to keep my word to my mother. I am still trying to be a good girl and to be a big girl.
Zenobia's Daughter
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