In Memory of Patricia Lyle Smith: My 1st Substitute Mother...
On Mothers Day, I was truly grieved. Of course, I kept on the smiles, and pretended to be fine...but this is a blog, right? So...I have to write my inner feelings. Hopefully this will help someone else.
I just want to say that all Mothers dont deserve celebration just because they gave birth. I know this may sound rude and controversial...but there are some of us that grew up without hugs, kisses, affection, love, feelings of worth and acceptance....some of us who had mothers who were in the clubs and in the streets, and on drugs, and allowed all sorts of vile things to happen to thier children. Some of us who were not protected by the ones who were supposed to protect, or help by the arms designed to hold. Some who never looked out into the audience at a play or game and saw thier mother sitting there, proudly smiling and cheering them on.
...Some of us to whom Mother's Day has a whole nother meaning.
It took me several days to even be able to write this. I wanted to do it on Mother's day, but not sure what I wanted to convey. It was gnawing at my spirit that I feel saddened every Mothers Day, and I couldnt figure out why.
Mother's Day is always bittersweet for me.
On one hand, happy...because it gives me a chance to spend time with my children, feeling thier love and appreciation for the time, energy and effort that I spent with them throughout thier lives, making up for what wasnt given in my own life... but on the other hand, hurtful, because it causes me to reflect on the fact that my mother chose to distance herself from me all of my life. Continued to keep men and money the central focus, and left me on the sidelines. I dont remember any hugs, kisses and sweet touches. I had to learn to do these things on my own children by practice. The last time I saw my mother, I asked her to make a choice between me and the boyfriend who wants me and my children out of her life.
She told me that she choose him...hugged me and my children Goodbye, and promptly dismised me. After two years of caring for her day and night after her brain aneurysm, this was the final straw. I just have to face and accept the fact that the mother I always wanted, prayed, and wished her to be...she never will. It's a fact alot of us have to face as we hear and see commercials talking about loving mothers who shaped thier childrens lives, and instilled love and morals and made them better people. We just have to make a decision to become better mothers for the next Generation. Give our children what we werent given, so we can be celebrated on those days.
And so, I have decided to make Mothers Day a celebration of the 'Mother 2's'...Fathers who raised us, the Grandmothers who hugged us, and dried our tears, the Aunts who showed up at the plays and cheered us on, and drove us to church when we needed it. Mentors who allowed us to stay at thier homes, and treated us like thier own kids.
They deserve celebration on this Mothers Day, and always, because when our Mother's could nt be the mothers that we needed, they stepped in and shouldered the responsibilities. It saved us, and kept us from breaking...and partially healed our hurting hearts. It may have been a teacher, a mentor, a lady at church, bt God sends people into your life to 'replace' those people who didnt come through for you. These people seem to come out of no where and fill a void that is left by the ones who naturally should fill it, but for whatever reason couldnt, or didnt. To this day, all of my kids friends call me 'Momma 2' because I made sure that none of them felt like they were without the love and encouragement (or discipline) they needed. I love the result: watching the loving, responsible, funny young adults they are all becoming!
Who can just see a child who needs a family, and turn away?
The last time I saw my Grandmother, My Mother 2, she was laying in a hospital room dead. I have a vivid memory of her hands, because I started at them for so long. I remember the nails, the color, the way they sat on her chest. She looked like she did when she took a nap, on the many times I stayed at her house to play. I was her only grandchild, so her house was set up with dolls, toys and art supplies. She encouraged my love of writing, and made me feel special each time I showed her a new project. She called me 'Sweetheart' and I called her "Honey". When I looked at her hands, I thought of the cookies she baked with those hands, the times she sat up on her sewing machine, making me dresses with those hands. The times I watched her feed the birds outside every morning with those hands. The times she showed me how to wash dishes, and cook, and fold, and make beds, and allowed me to comb her waist length hair, and showed me how to braid with those hands. The way she even cleaned the entire apartment steps on her hands and knees, and cut the roses outside the building to make the environment nice for everyone living there. She fed all of the neighborhood cats, and I would watch her stay up late to take care of an injured one. The hands that held the steering wheel as she dropped me off at camp, helped me do crossword puzzles, and play dress up. She even showed me her art before she died. I never even knew she was an artist!
She believed in speaking 'Proper Kings English" and therefore MADE me speak with manners. I was not allowed to use slang, etc. She took me to restaurants to show me how to eat, and which fork to use. She held Christmas and Thanksgiving at her home, and brought the family together every year...until she died.
Afterwards, her items were all lost in storage. All the 1950's Barbies and accessories I played with. All the beautiful things she owned. Her car was given away, her cats destroyed. Her art lost in auctions, her china split among her daughters. I was a child, and could do nothing but watch in horror. And last month when my mom's home burned down, the last of my grandmothers things was detroyed. Her family pictures, momentoes, and records that went back 5 generations.
So now... is Honey just a memory that I have? It feels like I have nothing left of her, but my memories of her hands. Who but me will know how she laughed, how she cracked jokes, her favorite TV shows.
714-774-1685- her phone number. 24 years later, I still remember it, beccause she loved cats and Koala Bears and anytime one came on TV, I had to call her up and we would talk about it.
That kind of stuff will all be forgotten two generations from now. Even if I write it down, I have had fires, and lost many important things, who is to say it will survive a flood, tornado, or natural disaster... I dont want her to disappear completely....She was so much more than a distant memory!!
She was my Heartwood...
I know I may have gone on and on...but I want her life to matter. Writing about it, helps.
Eternally
...And now it seems that
It was but a lovely distant dream
As time goes on and memories fade…
It gets more difficult to see
Your touch…your smell….your smile
The way you held me tenderly
All I have left of you now is what you left
Inside of me;
Laughter, hugs, thoughts, dreams,
And lessons taken time to teach
Are now (selfishly it seems)
Forever mine to keep.
Is it better to have Loved and Lost
Or never to have loved at all?
The question hangs in bitter irony
On my hearts internal wall
But even so, I’ll always have
The memory of our last night
With your arms gently wrapped around me
As we watched the day turn into night
Amazingly, even the sunset in all it’s splendor and golden light
Was nothing compared to the beauty
That reflected in your eyes.
And I didn’t know it then
That what I thought were sparkles in your eyes
Were tears that you were holding back
By what you hid inside
And I realize now that in my ‘ignorant bliss’
I never really thought you’d leave…
In painful retrospect of final hours
That I refused then to believe
Had I known it would be the last time that
You held me in your arms
…I would have told you
Just how many times you truly kept me safe and warm
…I would have clung to you for dear life
Till my hands began to bleed
And begged you not to leave my side
And kill the best in me
…I would have let you know
That no one ever loved me more in life
Never have, before you…and never since
The day you said goodbye.
They say that time will heal all wounds:
Erase the pain away
But time aint changed a thing for me
The agony remains..
And now all I have to hold onto
Is the Love you left with me
So…till we meet again, my sweet
It’s yours…Eternally
1987 EULOGY:
“I couldn't begin to describe my grandmother. How can you describe a person like her in only the few minutes that I have?
She is more like a mother to me than a grandmother.
I even called her honey, because she was as sweet as a rose.
I remember that Honey used to care for stray cats, she was that type of person.
She would go out every morning and pick fresh roses before they died. She hated for flowers to die.
The best way that I could put my feelings for her into detail was I wrote a poem called 'The Rose' Which I dedicated to her."
THE ROSE
There she stood, all alone
A single red rose
Little shades of pink showed the beauty,
Little drops of dew sprinkled ever so delicately
A single red rose
All alone she stood, slightly opened
Her leaves spread out in tenderness for all to see
And love her
Thorns on her small branch like tiny soldiers
guarding their queen
a single red rose
I walk through the field and quietly sit next to the rose.
The rose quivers slightly in the cool breeze that passes.
The quietness relaxes me, while the trickle of the river cools me.
All alone that rose stood
I touched the rose, it quivered again
And a drop of dew fell like a tear,
A tear for being alone.
I walked home slowly
As I walked, all I could think about
Was the rose
That single red rose
ALONE.
"Honey loved Roses. I think that if I ever read this to her, she would say "that is so nice sweetheart." Like she always says when she is proud of me.
I loved to make Honey proud of me.
Even in the hospital bed she was brave.
I will never forget my grandmother, she was so special. Everyone who knew her knew how special she was.
She gave before receiving, and was thankful for everything that she owned. I knew she loved me because we were so close.
I wish she could have watched me grow.
She would have been as proud of me as I was of her.”
-Myckelle P. Williams, 1987 age 13
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