Joie spends the day in grief-mode and ready to attack her husband who she blames for her daughters death.
My mouth stretches to fill this church with love and joy even in the midst of grief.
“Some glad morning when this life is over. I’ll fly away.” While the choir angelic voices float through the air near me right on the front pew, I remember…. I remember the fear the look of panic in Imani’s eyes when Isiah closed his hard fists around her fragile little neck.
“To that home on God’s Celestial shore…I’ll fly away.” I remember being so scared that urine trickled down my blue jeans creating a wet valley right between my thighs. Mybreathe was gone with each second that Imani’s tears cried and died under that short period of time where he squeezed his rough hands around her small neck. Her brown eyes popped out like they were asking me why. Her confused face twisted into an angry statement that needed to be expelled on a page. My blank spirit died when the last gulf of air escaped her body.
“I’ll fly away oh..glory.” Ain’t no glory in losing a child so young. I don’t understand why me.
“I’ll fly away (in the morning).” That’s the way I wanted to feel when the police came and rescued me from Isiah’s wicked embrace. He was rubbing on me like he was a mad man on a mission to kill and destroy. The bold murderous look in his blank eyes stripped me down to my naked soul.
“When I die hallelujah by and by..I’ll fly away.” I wish I had some drugs that night. So I could run away and disappear. Go to heaven with my baby. She was so special. I mean, I knew it, but I didn’t realize it….now I remember the sad way she was ripped from my life. And Isiah was so evil. So mean that day.
After he squeezed her neck and realized that there was no energy left in her body. You see originally he was trying to get her to shut up but I told him she was missing her daddy and missing her home. I mean, he didn’t catch on that her little legs stopped moving. That her high pitched voice was gone and the room had grown silent with my murmurs. And he had missed the last catch of breathe he was in a drunk drug haze after consuming many red pills and slurping up the last of his Crown Royal with that stupid purple bag hanging from his fidgeting fingers.
I was so quiet that maybe in my selfishness I too should be condemned for allowing him to tear down the spirit of my baby. My child. That is my child up there in the casket with her black and white dress with lace cuffing her puffed up face. And maybe it is my fault. Maybe I could have bargained my body to deal with him, to push him away from him. Maybe I should have offered him what I offered so freely in the past with Pharell. I can’t believe I stood still and offered no vocal objections when he killed Imani right in front of me. I could have tried to save her life.
Now as the cry of me sings a lonely song in my soul. I am empty like a garbage can. I still hear the vibrations from the clapping and stomping around me. Momma’s moaning like she is having a baby. Nandi’s high pitched voice is scathing me as I spot the wet tears on Crystalle’s face and she’s huddled in Charles’ arms. Issac is trying to touch me but I inch away, place a hand on the hem of my black dress, pull down my black hat and lace towards my face, pushing my glasses down further. I do not want any one to see the hell in my eyes.
I’m in the house of the lord and I want to scream murder. Me and Issac did this.
As the choir sings the last stanza of the song, I feel the spirit move within me, I cannot stop it. I cannot escape it.
When I hear the last line of the song, huge tears of sadness roll down my numb face bringing it alive and with it, a whole body that screams and moans and shakes a mother’s greatest fear. My breath is gone and my mouth stretches heaviness as I yelp and my body moves from side to side and ushers come to my aid as I uncontrollably let go. The entire church pew I am sitting on clears suddenly and with that empty space my rage is freed and liberated. Then I feel comforting fingers and devoted whispers float over, on and under my body. Issac is wiping my face with his favorite white handkerchief he got when he first got saved. Like the devils’ in my soul I yell fire in his face while spitting globs of hate on him and chanting my own lonely statement in a staccato accusation to Issac, “It’s your FAULT!” over and over and over again. My legs kick at him and the white globed ushers move him back, the choir stops their angelic offering, Momma rushes to my side offering words of encouragement in my deaf ear and my hateful stare to him says it all.
“I wish I could fly away.” I shake my black wild hair that broke free after I had my hallelujah baptism of sorrow. Yes, I wish I could fly away. I let the ushers take me to the pastor’s office while my song of melancholy chants in my ear and I feel Issac’s spirit follow me as I let my spirit be replenished. The murmurs of them calm my soul for a moment but for now on there will be no peace.
*
Time.
That time was about ten a.m. this morning. Now it is much later and I’m not sure what time it is because since the funeral I have refused to look at the clock or ask for the time. I’m spinning in between shock and being empty while surrounded at our tiny two bedroom apartment with people flowing into the somber house. It is the repast. I hate these things.
Just another excuse for folks to pig out.
And at someone else’s permission. My baby is gone and I feel nothing but hate for her father. I don’t even look at him. My feet are tapping a slow beat kind of like a Billie Holiday tune preciously sung except my feet have no vocal chords. They have no musicality but the keep tap tap tapping. The sounds of giggles and sighs flow around me as I gaze directly in his face. His strained eyes and lonely eyelashes that look lost. The skin is stretched around his eyes and I see him. I see him. Yet I don’t want to see him but I do.
He’s sitting directly across from me on the black leather couch we purchased when we first got marriage. My eyes glaze over his black suit and white shirt sticking out like a sore thumb as he rubs his thin fingers over his brown temples and grunts over whatever. I know he’s feeling the fire from me and that’s okay because he needs to feel this rage. I should have told him long ago that we needed counseling. We needed help. I wasn’t strong then, but I am now.
If I left him a few weeks or months ago, Imani would still be alive. My baby was going to turn three in January 31, 2005 but she is gone now.
I will never see her graduate eighth grade. Or go on her first date. Or move into her first apartment. I will never ever be able to experience her highs or lows. Because I was too weak and he was also. And we exposed her to a family member who didn’t deserve to step on the ground we were on.
Biting my lip, I look away from him. I feel rage burning deep in my soul. I feel guilty for being so consumed, not letting anyone touch me. I lift my tired body from the chair I had been sitting on and let my feet guide me towards the door as I silently left the crowded room so I could go up to my secret place and write.
All day I’ve been gripping on my red journal. I think some folks thought it was my bible and in some ways it is. It has the good, bad and ugly. My journal is my life script unfolded for someone who’s trying to get a good clue on who I am. My angry nostrils are flared with fury of having to go through this and I’m dumb-founded on how I’m going to live without my baby. I must write a poem or something to calm my nerves. Slowly walking to the elevator I grip the inside of my purse with one lone hand and push the up button on the elevator with my red polished nail as air of relief flows out of me.
I can still hear the chattering of everyone as I stand and wait for the elevator. A part of me hopes that someone will notice that I’m gone but I guess they didn’t and my delicate ears hear the approach of it, I crane my soar neck to check and make sure no one is coming out of my apartment searching for me.
The sudden stop of the elevator startles me and I quietly slid on it and hurriedly push for the twelfth floor. Once I get there I smile weakly, touch my bare arms, noticing the air pushing itself on my naked skin. I totally forgot to grab my heavy jacket. I guess it escaped me that it’s in the middle of winter and I’m probably going to get a cold. But you know what.
If it don’t kill me, it’ll make me stronger.
Finding my normal spot, I kneel and bend myself letting my knees touch the harsh ground. My eyes soak in the grey and black pebbles on the stony material and I rub one against my now freezing thumb and suck the warmness back. I can’t believe it’s just November 15 and almost time to pull out that turkey.
It’s not like I have much to be grateful for.
Okay, I know I’m being selfish but I don’t care. I just hope and pray that….
I can get through tonight. I’m not sure. Shaking the thoughts from my head, I throw the little pebble over the side of the building into the wide open air. Then I slide and sit down and let my black gel pen slide over the white pages as I flip my ‘private’ journal open.
With the wind at my back and my body begging me to hurry up this task I write. My thoughts flow to Imani.
Scattered thoughts
You and I on a quest
I guess God thought it best
To end our relationship
Take you through another blessed ship
While my fingers rip pages
Of sadness
Of the badness inside me
While I try to let my soul fly free
Is it me
That tries to be
Too much
Too much of a mother
When back in the day I was another
Silly little girl
In another world
I miss you
I love you
You were the true part of me not bruised
You are apart of me and will forever be…
My little girl
Who’s now in another world
Happy with no tears flying
Even though part of me is dying
And my husband is sighing.
I miss you Imani
Hiccupping and no longer able to let my fingers walk on the white page, I tears course my frozen face past lips that won’t speak and past eyes that don’t want to see. I open my mouth widely and yelp uncontrollably, “I want my baby!” so loud that I know someone probably heard me. And I don’t even care because I’m missing her like she was my skin, my life, my everything. The air in my lungs are scattered and running away from me and I’m clinging on to my sanity, what is left of it.
After my liberated moment I listen to the world around me. The buzzing of bells from the apartment buildings, wild cackles from the people walking below on Sheridan Road, the ticking of my heart beat, the zooming of buses speeding down the street and screeching of car tires as I return to myself. To the gripped pen in my hand.
To the situation of my life.
I know I must return to the house. People are waiting for me. Probably worried about me. But I hope they don’t’ think I’m going to eat anything.
Eating doesn’t mean anything to me. I am not hungry. I must lay my soul down and let it be regenerated.
I pick myself up and slid the door open to the building feeling the warmth of new air bringing me back to myself. My tingly fingers are happy but my soul is not, I flip the switch to indicidate I need the elevator on twelve and wait.
The first thing I notice when I get back in the house is that it’s quiet. I guess most of the people have left. A part of me is sorry I was so selfish and another part is not. I smell the aroma of barbecue chicken, smothered pork chops, and spaghetti coming to me in waves but I am not interested in letting that food enter my dome. I am still chilled from being outside and I clutch to my black purse and my pen/journal is till tightly wrapped in my trembling hands. I wonder where everyone is at.
I set my purse down on the living room table that is filled with bereavement cards, assorted flowers, and a bunch of homemade cards from some of Imani’s friends – Peter, Jonica, Tina and Boo. Apparently their parents had the kids write a note of empathy. That is nice. Very very nice of them.
I touch my heart which is filled to capacity with pain. I hope one day I can set it free.
My gaze surveys the empty living room but I see one person looking right back at me and when I see him, I turn away but the startling tone of his voice stops me.
“So you back to your selfish self, hun?”
“Me, selfish?” I chime back at him. Half of my face is away from him as I ponder what I should do.
“Yeah, you are the one who ran away, didn’t you?” He shifted his body from the chair he had been sitting in and stood up approaching me.
“This is not about me!” I stamp my feet and pout out my lips as rage takes hold of me. “You are the one…with the crazy brother. With the one who killed your own child. With his drugged ass!” My hawk eyes challenge Issac as I wait for a response.
“Don’t put this all on him. I mean, you are the one who’s acting like miss-super woman. You won’t let your defenses down. You won’t let anyone get close, not even your own mother.”
My lips were shut at the mention of mom who did try to comfort me, it’s just that I couldn’t let it go. I still won’t let it go.
I hizzed at him, “I hate you.” as I ran into Imani’s room to continue my alienation and locked the door. I will face him another day.
Not this day.
I must breathe alone in my own space.
(c) 2004 by Pam Osbey
All Rights Reserved
No reprints please.
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Reviewed by Judy Lloyd
11/11/2004
Powerful and so true to life. Me I would have just did and worry about the consequences later.
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