I was driving down a busy road in the ‘Bury recently with no particular place to go. My mind was wandering about just as aimlessly as my truck was moving. I had no particular thoughts running through the deep and shallow recesses of my brain either. I was impervious to the cars cascading around me as they all seemed to be headed nowhere in a hurry. I ignored the honking horns of frustrated human beings in their individual modes of conveyance seeming to travel faster than I was creeping along in the slow lane. The radio was on but I was paying little attention to the talking head rambling on about a whole lot of nothing. When he was done regurgitating his string of polysyllabic nonsense, an oldie but goodie rap song coursed out through my vehicle’s speakers causing me to sit upright and pay attention.
As the late Tupac Shakur melodically emoted a beautiful tribute to his mom in the 1995 song, “Dear Mama,” I couldn’t help but remember my own mother who transitioned to her heavenly home almost three years ago. As I turned familiar corners in the privileged part of the city, I thought about the coming Mother’s Day free for all and what love letter I would write to the memory of my deceased mom. I jealously hoped I could capture the essence of Tupac’s song, “Lady, don’t you know we love ya? (Dear Mama). Sweet lady, place no one above ya (You are appreciated). Sweet lady, don’t you know we love ya?”
Here goes: Dear mama, it’s your baby boy, Kennie. I smile and laugh to myself because that’s not the way I spell it but that’s how you always wrote it in cards and notes to me. I never asked why but it’s special now because no one else ever spells it that way and that’s something we share together. You’ve been gone for a while now but you haven’t been forgotten. There are little reminders everywhere that will cause me to take a mental pause and try to latch onto memories that are being erased from my mental storehouse. My childhood memories are fading but there are still a few etched in my mind with indelible ink, “When I was sick as a little kid, to keep me happy, there’s no limit to the things you did.
And all my childhood memories are full of all the sweet things you did for me.” I fondly remember standing in your bedroom as an adult several weeks before you left us for good and you surprising me with a scrapbook of every article I had written for the last three decades. I never knew you were cutting them out and saving them. I was speechless then and still remain so today but this letter is to say, “There’s no way I can pay you back, but the plan is to show you that I understand; you are appreciated.”
After you died, the family became a little fractured. We don’t talk or all get together like we used to. It’s sad because I remember the parties on the screened patio for your birthday, Mother’s Day and all the other holidays you always dressed the house up in. You made sure the big ones and lesser known holidays were represented. The occasion mattered less than having your family, friends and neighbors all together celebrating under one roof. I can still hear that high-pitched elongated surprise sound you made when opening gifts and cards that let everyone know how appreciative you were for being feted and thought of on your special days. I humorously remember one Christmas 20 years ago, you opened a gift from me that you didn’t quite like but you never said it out loud. At the end of the long squeal of delight, you asked in the next breath if I had kept the receipt.
While our dad worked two jobs just to try to make ends meet somewhere in the middle as we grew up, you held the house down. You don’t survive for 60 years in marriage without having a good dance partner and you showed you could get on the good foot. You made raising five kids, working part time and keeping a house running smoothly look like an episode of ‘Dancing with the Stars.” You took five kids from adolescence to adulthood ensuring none of us fell victim to the pitfalls so many kids drown in today. I know I wasn’t easy and probably gave you the most headaches but you never made it look like work, “And even though I act crazy, I gotta thank the Lord that you made me… and I appreciate how you raised me and all the extra love that you gave me.” Well, there is one thing I don’t like to this day that you did and its Spam because you made sure we ate it with pinto beans and cornbread every Tuesday night.
Mama, I’ve been going through a rough time with my health lately but I saw the way you never gave up the last three months of your fight and it’s given me strength. When I sat in the hospital room with you watching you struggle here and in Concord, you never showed defeat. Through all the humming of the machines and the tubes emanating from your body, you never lost hope. I recall you saying how you couldn’t wait to get home and sit on your patio. Just like you mama, I’m not giving up or allowing this to get me down. I look back and say, “I wish I could take the pain away. If you can make it through the night, there’s a brighter day. Everything will be alright if you hold on. It’s a struggle every day, but you gotta roll on.”
I’m gonna let you keep resting now mama, I just wanted you to know on this Mother’s Day, “There’s no way I can pay you back, but my plan is to show you that I understand; you are appreciated.”
Kenneth “Kenny” L. Hardin is an alumni member of the National Association of Black Journalists.
