The last few days my head has been a little muzzy; I’ve been in a weird place. At first, I thought it was just the constant barrage of ridiculous news cycles. I kept hearing a voice in my head, the way you hear a radio broadcast coming from another room in the house with a weak signal, the white noise and static making it inaudible but still familiar. I didn’t take time to tune in, to adjust my internal antennae for clarity.
The NFL season started on Thursday, and I admit I’m still a loyal fan (maybe even a fanatic), even though I hear Chuck D in the background: “…a form of slavery, organized,” predominantly Black bodies making the elite rich in stadiums filled with white folks for spectacle. My team, the Chiefs, lost… that also could have been part of it.
This morning when I grabbed my journal and favorite pen, usually having a few directions to start—race, politics, Blackness—this morning was different. Nothing came to mind; there was still that interference that demanded I clear it, so I tuned in. The noise of this world had been blocking the voice of my first true love, my mom. September 4th marked the 27th year since she transitioned to the ancestral plane. Caught up in everything else—work, football, life—I failed to spend a moment acknowledging her passing.
Sometimes it’s as simple as a moment of quiet reflection, listening to her voice telling me she’s still watching. A lot of times it’s writing about her, picking out a moment we shared or the gifts she blessed me with. Love. I apologized to her for forgetting. She smiled and said she forgave me, but don’t let it happen again! I used the excuse that I’m getting old, and she reminded me that no matter how old I get, she was always going to be 32 years older than me—one of her favorite sayings.
I’ll always love my momma. She’s my favorite girl!
