Mi Madre

Inspired by “My Mother” by Jamaica Kincaid

-1-

I wiped the sweat off my forehead. My baseball cap was doing little to keep me cool. The summer heat beat down on my bare shoulders, scalding the flesh off bone. It was Saturday morning, noon on the dot. My mother had left the house to run her errands, with a quick, "It wouldn't hurt you to do a little yard work, you know." I sat on a garden stool, adjusting the thin plastic gloves over my sweaty hands. Holes already on the tips of my fingers where pesky dirt sneaked in and beneath my nails.
I wasn't doing this for nothing; I wanted to please my mom. For once, I wanted her to be happy and know that I wasn't just a lazy, good-for-nothing-teenager, who sleeps in late and never helps out. That's why I sat out in the front yard, during the hottest part of the day, seeing to my mother's wishes. I picked out each individual weed from the ground, poking into the nearby dirt with a weeder, and scooping out the roots, as if I was healing every cut in my mother-daughter relationship. With every lifted weed, a little part of the garden was renewed, purified. I was creating a clean slate for whatever new seeds would be planted next, for however the garden wished to grow and improve.
My shadow stood at two o'clock when my mother pulled into the driveway. She stepped out of the car and opened the trunk to unload the groceries. "Everyone out here now! Help unload the car!," she shouted to the rest of the family. I walked up to greet her, pointing out my labor. A look of disappointment crossed her face. "Why did you do that?" she inquired, "I wanted you to move those rocks, over there, to the back yard. I can do the weeding on my own." That was it. No thanks at all. Not an ounce of gratitude or appreciation. An instant rush of anger pounded through me. I dumped the black trash bag filled with weeds back onto the garden, and stomped back inside the house.

-2-

Church was almost over. As our pastor gave the benediction, my eyes followed the red carpet, until they fell upon my grandma who was sitting behind the grand piano. She was watching the keys with a look of deep thought and sadness. I stood in the wooden pews, with my sister to the left, and my mother to the right. My pastor had stopped speaking, and the church was filled with the introduction to a song I recently learned, and knew all too well. Grandpa had died last Thursday, and sorrow filled my whole family at the thought of that song. May God Bless You, it was called. It was written by my grandma and aunty. We sung it in the hospital room: cousins, aunty, uncle, grandma, sisters, parents, and pastor, all gathered around my frail, peaceful papa. Then we sang, at his funeral in the same wooden pews. And now it was playing again, and the church was filled with singing. All different voices sang together in unity, but I knew that not everyone else felt the way that I did. We were not unified in feelings too. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes, and I had to pause from singing in an attempt to prevent those tears from falling. "Within the first light of the dawn, may God bless you. And when the light of day is gone, may God bless you. And in your smiles and in your tears, through everyday of all your years. His love will always, see you through. May God bless you. May God bless you." The song ended, and movement broke out in the sanctuary. People scattered every which way. An arm wrapped around my shoulders, and brought me into a warm hug. My mother was wiping the tears from her eyes, with a damp tissue. "Maybe one day," she said with a small smile of love, understanding, and sadness. "We'll be able to get through this song together." I didn't say anything, just cherishing the moment. Where my mother and I, differences aside, were one.