A soft clang echoes through the kitchen as I drop the used dishes in the sink. I immediately turn around to go tend to my mother who looks paler than she did last night.
My heart sinks when I see her struggling to get up by herself.
"Mom, stop being so stubborn. Let me help you. You're exerting too much energy."
My mother, a 5'5 dark African-American woman, with cat like eyes and a low cut turns to me with a deep scowl.
"You know how much I hate it when you have to babysit me. Go on from here. Go have fun with your mates. Look at you. All grown up and too serious." Her knuckles are almost white from the death grip she has on that wooden dining chair. I roll my eyes in response.
"I don't need to be anywhere but here Mom. So quit whining and let me take you to bed." I say as I move to help her but the woman moves away from me so fast that I fear she might fall.
Mom was diagnosed with Arthritis and peptic ulcer disease late last year. In her late 60's, Mom is anything but weak but her condition worries me so much sometimes.
"You little brat..." She wants me to think that she's mad but I know she's not by the way her eyes glint and the near smile at the tip of her lips. With my aid, Mom makes it under the sheets where I tuck her in and have her take her medicines.
It is heartbreaking when I have to see this strong woman– who even in the face of rejection from her husband and family never cracked– writhing on the bed and crying in extreme pain. I hate it sometimes. Well that's a lie. I totally hate to see her like that.
For twenty years, Mom took the burden of raising me when my father decided we weren't enough for him. She never even wanted to let me know the truth behind my dad, until I bumped into someone who didn't like me enough to tell me that my family is a total wreck.
Yeah I get that. Sometimes we just have to hurt some people to make ourselves feel better. Still, I wish others would take feelings into consideration. After I'm sure Mom is okay and has all she needs including a Jug of water with a glass beside it on her bedside table, I head to the kitchen to complete my chores.
The clock on our wall says it's a few minutes past eight. Our living room is not too big but big enough for two. It's been just I and Mom. Envelopes sit on the dining table we'd just stepped away from and I can't deal with them right now. It's just bills and more bills.
At the kitchen sink, with the window a little close to the road, I still get a view of passersby at this time because it's still early over here in Brooklyn.
I turn on the tap just as headlights flash on my face and quickly disappear as soon as they came. The radio plays in the background and I could care less whatever music it is they are on about. Mom is right. I should be out there partying, mingling maybe even getting knocked up like every other single girl in this neighborhood, but I'm not.
Don't get me wrong, it's my choice to be here because I want to but I do wonder sometimes if life would be different if my father had an ounce of manliness in his blood. Shaking my head, I move to turn on the tap just as a new song starts playing in the background and for some reason, it's soft intro lulls me in.
Then the voice of a lady fills the room, the first line hooks my attention.
The tap still running, I pause with a dish and foam in hand.
My head spins with dizziness like I'm on some kind of drug as she keeps on singing. What?
The piano accompanies her voice making my heart break as much as it leaps.
I turn off the tap so I can listen better to what this lady is singing. I'm not a fan of music. Hell, I don't have time to listen to music with work, school and taking care of Mom as my top priorities. My phone is just filled with numbers– of my teachers and colleagues– and apps useful to my studies. Not a single song. But maybe that would change after tonight...
As the woman sings on, my mind is reeling with the possibilities of this woman, whoever she is, going through the same things I go through. Every single day, the doubt, the struggle, the fear and the heartbreak. Could she possibly be going through the same thing? Why does her lyric feel like it's speaking to me?
With this thought in mind, I make my way to our living room, dishes forgotten. I sit on the armrest of one of our worn out couches, my eyes steady on the radio that's just beside our beat down television.
As the song progresses, I can be sure she's singing of someone.
Yeah. Wait, who is she singing about? Who's this person? Her husband? Boyfriend? Fiance?
The song has progressed to some kind of pop song at this point but my mind is just wrapped around the lyrics that if anything, shares of her good rapport with whoever that person may be. Whoever that person is, they have a really good relationship and they must really love her. I... I'd want something like that. A lump forms in my throat.
The chorus repeats again and my heart pounds against my chest because I could have sworn I felt someone beside me. I turn but it's empty space. I'm alone like every other time. What the heck?
I turn back to the radio, my heart in my throat, a glare on my face. My chopped nails play with a strand on my black hoodie. Why am I nervous? Is it because of what she's saying? Because she might be singing my life story and then some? What the hell do I feel like crying for?
Soon she gets more explicit in her lyrics and Oh! Oh!! My eyes widen with realization. This lady wasn't singing about a boyfriend, husband or fiance. This is a gospel song. She was singing about God! And she confirms it in the next line of the song.
Then she bursts into the chorus at the same time I burst into tears. I put my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs which come like a flood. My whole body shakes violently as a memory plays in my head. A forgotten memory.
"In everything, with every pain and joy, remember you're not alone. God's always there even when you don't feel him. He's always willing to help. To listen."
The woman who'd told me this was my highschool teacher. She'd noticed the signs of my depression when no one else did. She'd offered help by giving me the card to a friend of hers who's a counselor. But I wasn't ready to let anyone into my head and so she told me to turn to God instead. I'd forgotten all about that.
I go to turn off the radio right before another song begins to play. The last thing I want is to soil this moment of peace. I feel that presence again and turn but see nothing. However, I know, that something just happened because I feel more peaceful than I'd ever been.
Who would have thought that night was all it took to transform my entire life? That I'd talk to girls and boys who are going through the same phase? That I'd encourage anyone? That I'd be a pillar for others someday?
As the crowd claps after my speech, I go to wait for the little kids from the FindLife Foundation– a charity organization I started ten years after that night. We not only help the less privileged, but people with emotional or mental problems. I have the best team behind me and each day I look to the sky and say thank you for everything.
My mom would have been proud If she saw me right now, laughing and cuddling with young children but she's with the Lord now. My husband makes his way over with one of the best gifts I could have asked for– my four year old daughter who doesn't hesitate to join in on the fun.
Once again, as I've done for years, I look up to the sky and mutter a thank you.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
The song is a personal favorite. It's titled YOU SAY by Lauren Daigle.