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This pain was unbearable. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It literally felt like she forced her hand through my chest and ripped my heart out.
This felt final.
“It’s too late, Sunnie.” She kissed my cheek and forced my arms to release her. Before she walked out the door, she waved to Zeek and promised that she’d be at the funeral.
Once the door slammed, my knees buckled, and I hit the tile hard and wept from the depths of my soul. Zeek lifted me and carried me to the couch, trying to wipe my tears and soothe my cries, but it was of no use.
It was too late.
I was too late.
A piece of my heart felt like it was missing. Looking ahead at the hearse carrying my mom’s body, moments like this made me wish I’d gone through with my original plan. A plan that equated to me ending my pain for good. For years, I’ve lived in a constant state of denial. Never wanting to accept my mom’s reality. Forever praying that the good would outweigh the bad.
I guess that would mean my mom living in pain and suffering for my gain.
Selfish.
Since Sunnie and I tossed my bed, I haven’t had a nightmare sleeping on our air mattress, but the painful reality of my mom being dead sometimes made me wish I could go back to those dreams. A place where pain didn’t exist, only fear.
To make matters worse, Crystal has called and each time I forward her call to voicemail with a text following explaining that I’d call her back when I was done dealing with family shit. She’s carrying my child. Doesn’t the well-being of my seed fall in line with family shit?
I wasn’t thinking clearly.
My thoughts were a jumbled scrambled fucking mess.
The only thing I’ve managed to do correctly is design a collection of suits in honor of my mom that our entire family, minus my dad, wore today in celebration of her memory. Different shades of soft lavender worn by each generation and our immediate family. Cream and gold accent accessories for each gender. Fedora hats and custom handkerchiefs with my mom’s birthday and favorite scripture. I spent a lot of money to have the line designed and ready in time for her funeral. My seamstress barely batted an eye or flinched when I gave my demands and timeline. All she asked was for my black card and patience. I gave everything she needed along with the numbers of my family so she could get their measurements and we picked everything up yesterday. Everything fit. Barely any alterations that had to be done. Only a few tweaks, but for the most part, we looked good. Really damn good.
She even managed to create the dress I wanted my mom to wear.
Leave it up to my dad. He’d have her dressed in a frumpy moo-moo dress from Walmart. Fuck no. I refused for my mom to be laid to rest in nothing but the finest. She deserved it while living and I for damn sure made sure she looked perfect, even in death. Between my seamstress and Sunnie, mom’s nails were done to match her lavender dress. Her hair was styled in the prettiest of curls. Sunnie even added some makeup that changed her look from ghostly to beautifully sleeping.
“Love, are you ready?” Sunnie’s soft hand squeezed mine.
For my special girl, I made sure my Sunnie Mae looked stunning. She, too, wore a lavender suit paired with pearls like Leann.
A long lapel jacket that dusted the floor thanks to her matching Jimmy Choo heels. The wide leg pants sprouted from her hips and cinched her small waist like my hands have done in my dreams. A cream silk blouse tucked in. A single string of pearls resting on her collarbone. Matching fedora hat over her slicked low bun and stud pearl earrings.
She looked good.
She smelled even better.
“Yeah.”
We were in a three-row limo with my brother and his family while dad sat in one by himself. He took one look at me when I got to their house and refused to share space with me.
That shit had my chest tight and my mood more depressed.
He’d already gone inside the church along with my aunts. A true pussy bitch. He thought his demands of keeping me from being one of the six carrying in my mom’s casket were going to be heard. I’ll be damn if this man thought he was going to punk me at my mom’s funeral. I carried her in on unsecured legs. Walking slow, allowing the weight of the casket iron bars to rest in my hands, I tried to control my breathing as best as I could. I’ve gone to my share of funerals. I’ve been a pal barrier of a few caskets, but never for my mama.
Each step I took inside the church, the weight of my reality weakened me. Though he never said it or complained, I knew Jeremiah felt my hold slip a few times. He kept his gaze focused ahead. Eyes hidden by dark shades. After we made sure her casket was secured on the gold platform, we took our seats and mom’s life celebration began.
Bishop Cambridge started the reading of the eulogy, and my focus rested on the picture of my mom on the cover of the obituary. It was taken this past Christmas at the cabin I rented in Colorado. During Thanksgiving dinner, I asked her what she wanted for Christmas expecting her to name several kitchen gadgets she didn’t need or another sewing machine. She surprised us all when she asked to spend Christmas in the mountains.
Nothing else needed to be said.
I made it happen.
She was happy, smiled the entire week we were there. On the days her energy was at its highest, she’d go out and have a snowball fight with her grandkids. Ask Jeremiah and me to go make snow angels. Build a snowman with Leann. Every day was a new adventure for her, and I captured one of her moments during a night when we were out by the firepit roasting smores.
