It's June. June 2020. That year. That time.
CoronaVirus, shattered economy, Another Black Man nakedly executed by the system on video.
Tough times for all. Plenty of time to reflect.
A schoolmate Dash knew from grade school took his own life.
Macro and micro.
Growing Pains. Parenting Pains.
Both our jobs are safe; most everyone we know is healthy.
We're okay. But a fragile time.
April, 2021
I never feared for my mother.
Through the death of my father.
Through the advanced breast cancer diagnosis a week later. Through the chemo.
Through the falls and snapped bones.
Through the inevitable continual decline in stature and health.
Until yesterday.
Why did I not worry? Part of it was that our relationship was complicated. More of it was a not-conscious recognition that her legendary stubbornness and general bullheadedness were manifestations of a tough defiant strength. Mom might be the on the lower end of the spectrum when it comes to self-starting, nimble, make-it-happen, going-places, etc. But, like a rock, she is strong, tough, immoveable, unbreakable. Fired from Wal-Mart because at 72 years old, she wouldn't stop confronting the 20-year old male shoplifters. Fearless.
Right?
I haven't always felt disconnected.
But before that first remembered disconnect, I was disconnected. At birth I was given up for adoption, and my dad's first wife left when I was two.
A lesser disconnection, but the first remembered: Aunt Alice, my nanny - the earliest mother figure I still remember...
The first time my new stepmom hit me - at five-years old - I remember a disconnect, a violent shattering.
At eight, I remember huddling outside in the dark, hiding, scared. Trying to figure out where I could go, how I would eat. Stepmom had yelled at me "Tonight there is only going to be one of us in this house." She hadn't left. I was alone in the dark. The world was huge. I was facing how helpless I was in it. I was scared.