May 18, 1976, I am standing on the hill hanging out with my friends. I see my da’s car snaking slowly down the hill. A chill runs through me. No matter how hard I try I can’t pull my eyes away from the car. My friends are shouting and playing around behind me. Having a good time. I feel like they are in a different dimension to me. Though I can hear them, I feel like they are far away. Muted sounds. Something deep within my core is chilled. It is only when the car moves out of my sight that I snap out of the trance. I shake my body. Hug myself. Letting the coldness seep out. I turn and go running back to my friends. Shaking the feelings of dread. Pushing them to the back of my mind.
A few hours later just before dusk, my brother comes looking for me. I know instantly when I see his face that something is wrong. Once again that feeling creeps back in.
“You need to come home,” he says.
“No, I’m having fun,” I answer.
“You need to come home now,” he says again, not smiling. Demanding.
I don’t want to go. I want to stay where I am. It feels safer here. But I go. He walks in front of me. Not speaking. Not looking at me. He disappears in the house before me. Leaves the door ajar behind him. I hear voices. Strange voices. My heart races. I walk through the kitchen door slowly. I feel like I am going to suffocate. The air is so thick. There are people here. People that aren’t usually here. And then I hear my sister say to someone on the phone, “She’s gone.”
I look at her. I look round the kitchen. And I know because I can’t breathe. I know because deep in my core something has broken. Died. I know and I scream, “Who’s gone? Who’s gone?” Over and over again. Like a broken record. Trying to drown out the news.
They stare at me. They don’t know what to say. A tear rolls down my sister’s face. I start to shake. I can’t breathe. I look from face to face. Then my little brother runs into the room. His little face broken. “Mama’s dead!” he cries. “Mama’s dead.” Like a broken record. Like a startled child.
And then I hear a piercing scream. And then I feel my body retch. And then I feel arms around me. Guiding me. Trying to protect me. And then I realise the scream is mine. The pain is mine. And I can’t stop it. They can’t stop it. No one can.
My worst nightmare has come true. My best friend. The love of my life. My mama is gone. Dead. Just like that. No goodbye. Nothing. Just disappeared. Gone. I feel like I have broken into a trillion, bazillion tiny little fragile pieces and I scream some more.
May 18, 2012 and I still feel the pain I felt when I heard the news. When my life changed unexpectedly. Instantly. And without warning. Some 36years later I still feel like that 13 year old girl when I first wake up. It happens every May 18. Some years worse than others. Some years better than others. But now I understand that pain. I know that pain has given me the wings to be who I am. That pain allowed me to grow in ways I would never have dreamed possible before. That pain taught me forgiveness, compassion, empathy and love. And that pain comes every year to remind me.
May 18 is always a sad day for me but also a day for me to recollect from whence I have come. To be grateful for the time I had with my mother. To be grateful for all her life and death has taught me. And continues to teach me.
May 18 a day of reverence for me. Rest in peace mama. I will always love you. And thank you for teaching me “I wasn’t built to break."
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