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Excerpt of a Monologue
Category: Writing "Grief: from the Cradle to the Grave--a Mother's Monologue" Stream of Consciousness

I can never forget that day, imprinted like a snapshot in my brain that will never recede. My pudgy twin sister Theresa was showing me the secret to her famous sweet potato pie, when a sharp knock startled us and I thought to myself, dog, who is it stopping me from getting that secret ingredient I'd been bugging Theresa about for years. A part of me felt a bit of apprehension about who was knocking so urgently because all of our family and friends knew to use the doorbell, as any civilized person should. So who the hell was this fool going crazy at the damned door? Theresa must have felt it too because she was right behind me as I neared the door. Probably one of Brandon's goofy ass friends trying to get a pick up game of b-ball going.

A towering and very intimidating uniformed officer was on the other side of the door and his face had a look of graveness that I never want to see again. His eyes were heavy and blood-shot from sleep deprivation. "Excuse me m'am, are you Mrs. Thompson, the mother of Brandon Thompson?" I nodded mutely begging God to reverse the order of what I knew was coming and to just magically erase this moment, bleep it from my life and replace it with another day. Theresa peered at the officer, almost spell bound, not able to stop him or even speak to him, motionless and moving slowly as if she were wading through a force of waters. I remember fainting at the words "...found shot, eleven times, dead on arrival..."

The initial months, even the first year were just a blur. I am sure I was in some parallel universe because I have no real memories of how I spent my time. There really was no way to go on with life and it no longer had any meaning. I no longer cared about stock options or my rapidly decreasing credit score.

My Brandon had just graduated high school three weeks ago before he was put in the ground. What had Brandon done, what had I done to deserve this? God had really screwed this one up! I'd always done the best I could with Brandon and we'd managed to get to church and pray together when he went through his first rejection from the football team. I ‘d shown him how to be a man as much as any woman could and how to be honest and respect the ladies, even the fast-tailed dick sucking ones who never even had the decency to pretend otherwise in front of me. We'd even defied the odds, the statistics that every young black boy is burdened and tempted with of incarceration, hustling‘, and playing pimp without the crib and cars, but with the five babies‘ mamas. He never had been in a lick of big trouble and had maintained solid grades in school--not perfect mind you. He never wanted to run the streets and had enough sense to stay away from gangs and hotheads. He'd even told me one day when he was about twelve that I didn't have to worry about him. He'd said, "Mama, I'll never be like dad. I'm not gon' be out there hustlin' and get myself smoked." His father was dead by the time Brandon turned two and he knew how I hurt and ached because of this. I had learned the hard way about my own mistakes and was determined to steer Brandon away from the path I‘d taken.

After holding my breath through all of the tough years, I finally let out a sigh of relief when he graduated from high school and with all of his hard work received, an almost full ride to M.U. The rest we'd pay with the help of my two jobs and the part-time he'd had over the last three years at Blockbuster. Being black, we were used to scraping together bits and pieces here and there and sometimes under and over and in-between, lint clinging to every penny.

And just like that! Poof! Gone without warning. If someone's gonna die, shouldn't there be some rule in place by God, that gives you that last good-bye? I mean where is the decency here? In the time it took for lightening to strike and fade my baby was gone as if he'd never even existed. It was as if aliens beamed down from a spaceship and waved a memory zapping gun at all my friends and the entire universe, they forgot he was ever here, but the aliens had not invited me to the zapping party. I should have crashed it and Brandon's memory mercifully would have been obliterated and I would be Stepford happy. His life had been fast-forwarded and deleted before he'd even had a chance to become a full-fledged man or left me any green-eyed heirs.

That night had been like all the others. Nothing unique or odd. Seems like before someone dies the death day could have a parade, fireworks, elephants, something. When you eat your sweet potato pie, it seems like you would at least feel that your only child was being executed. While I had been haggling with Theresa over the pie, doing taste tests and enjoying my lemon-aide, Brandon was being viciously snuffed out of my life. He'd just been trying to get home that night, a Tuesday, just as always. He was locking up Blockbuster and was walking to his car, his keys out in front of him. He'd just turned the lock but never made it inside of the car. They say he was clutching the gold chain I gave him for graduation with the cross on it as the bullets cruelly blazed through his chest and lodged there. He'd always worn that chain with such pride and had gripped it like a life-line. They'd had to pry it from his dead brown fingers. And they were never caught--they being the mutha fuckin' monsters that I curse every day, playing God with my child of God. I live off my rage and pray everyday that their nameless faces are revealed. I pray that they get tortured, decapitated, hung, burnt alive. I pray for another Jeffrey Dahmer to surface if only for one hour to hunt them down and laugh as they die under his demented experiments. But than the anger dissipates and I feel weak, useless, life seeps out of me and I think about the chain that I gave him. I haven't been able to find that chain and it's just one more thing on the list of shit that makes me feel as if I've been assaulted (legs ripped apart and stabbed repeatedly in my feminine center).

The anger continues to come and go and I feel bitterness toward God. What the fuck did I do to get to this point of being on God's top 10 'I hate you' list? I never mistreated anyone at all (not counting that time I stole --still pudgy--Theresa's boyfriend when we were seniors and I just happened to walk out from my shower with my bath towel on and mistakenly let it drop, as he waited to take her out--my ass was not big then). Growing up I ate my vegetables, made my bed up everyday, got mama Christmas presents, and never had sex in the back seat of cars, just as dad wanted (actually he didn't want me to have sex, period, but I sorta kept the rule and did my fucking in the grandest motels, in fine style with the best cum infested sheets and the wealthiest cockroaches in town). I went to college (no need to know that I flunked out because of finite mathematics and poor attendance--who the hell could make it to a 7:45 bio class after a night at the club--who wanted to?) and I tried to pay my bills on time because it was the right thing to do (and my credit score needed help). So what the fuck? Why was my son dead and that crack head Kim's son who knew a jail cell like it was home, still alive? You do the right shit and you still get screwed, so what's the point of doing the right shit? I should have done all the wrong shit and lived life and stuck up my middle finger to the world instead of smiling politely and holding strings of unchristian-like words back. After all, God had demonstrated how much I was loved.

For two years I have woken up, basically a zombie, the walking dead. I go to work and back and go to work and back and eat in-between and somehow miraculously I am still here and my child is not. I have even gained weight. I always thought that this anger-depression deal was supposed to work the other way around. But somehow my ass keeps getting bigger (not apple bottom cute I must say) and someone's invisible hand just continues to magically shove Krispy Kreme don nuts and Sara Lee cheesecake into my mouth.

At first I had a flurry of visitors and comforters but as the months wore on, the visitors and well wishers begin to dwindle, till even my rapidly fat--growing sister Theresa, wasn't coming by anymore. They got tired of my ass. I think that my grief, my pain, and inability to move on, made people uncomfortable. After all, what were they going to say to me? "Let's go get a drink, oops--you can't be a happy drunk like us, your son is dead. We don't want to baby-sit a suicidal drunk"? Even though Theresa was Brandon's aunt and was grieving she had her own kids to tend to so her life was not over, like mine. Couple this with the fact that people were always careful to avoid me when their kids got awards or flunky job promotions from Burger King or they got the news of having a new ugly grand-baby (and you know how hard it is for a baby to be ugly, but I would always compensate by oohing and ahhing over the baby's CUTE Capri outfit or their baby curls--not even black babies have naps unless they come from some rough stock). They were discrete in not telling me, but I always found out because besides the fact of being naturally nosy, in some way, I secretly wanted to punish myself. Maybe God wanted me to know that this really was my fault.

My grief was like a contagious thing, a hepatitis rampantly spreading that could reach out and invade them. This grief of mine was on a serial mission like the Boston Strangler ready to engulf the next unwitting victim dumb enough to hang around me. There was no way to penetrate this emotionless cement that I had incased myself in. And so, the friends, co-workers, even Theresa of all people , avoided me, but in a kind way, if there is such a thing. They would always be "busy" with work or running to the grocery store on a Friday night, as if! I was being dumped gently like a lover in a fading romance. I wasn't even asked to go to movies or out to eat anymore because after I refused the first few times, they felt guilty as if they were badgering me and I am sure that they were secretly relieved. I was the rainy downpour--the babysitting suicidal drunk poison and grief-stricken person, preventing everyone from enjoying their decaff-I need another espresso shot--dutiful bill paying and church-going cotton candy-blue skies lives-even my beyond pudgy twin Theresa.

At least mama and dad were dead. Their hearts would never have been able to take the loss of Brandon. So here I was all alone and trying to figure out a way to build a life for myself out of nothing. I would never shop at Wal-Mart again for some new boxers to replace Brandon's holey and crust infested ones with worse secret horrors, I‘m sure, that I was not privy too. I would never be able to buy him Egyptian sheets with extremely high thread counts and see the expression on his face when his sweet (not the fast-tailed- dick sucking one) girlfriend thanked him for their comfort after a romantic evening (I would never have the chance to delude myself into believing that they were both virgins).

I might have even been able to start healing if someone would have at least asked me about Brandon, his memory, anything. Those friends of mine and fat Theresa got to continue grinning and farting over every tiny delight from Jerome getting a good judge in court to Anthony's new business selling bootleg cds out the back of his chop shop SUV, to William finally graduating high school after enough summer school to double as college credit. But my Brandon was a star. He would have put all of their pathetic kids to shame. He was on the fast-track with his life. But one day God decided to put me on the hate list and that was that. They continued being the proud parents and the farting and sneezing over the most idiotic "accomplishments" nauseatingly lived on. The latest "accomplishment" was my friend Angeliece's son escaping being gang-raped--whoopee, let‘s toast to living on the fast track! Yes, the past had been obliterated and replaced overnight with this. My role, my essence, was stripped from me. I was a dishonorably discharged soldier (how do you like that for alliteration--thanks for the literary device Mrs. Marshall!) Apparently I had committed some horrid, unspeakable injury against God. Had I given Brandon up for adoption, I still would have been considered a mom and most importantly, he'd probably be alive. So I get it God, bible lesson over please.

Of course I couldn't go on living in this daily fog forever (well I could but after all this is a fiction piece, so you must know that the tide had to change). Something had to give whether it be death by my own hand or waking up from my death-like coma. Of course I almost would prefer death by my own hand to this. Daily I had waved my little .22 around and repeated forcefully, as if I were using self-hypnosis, the mantra "just do it; do it, you stupid coward, do it!" Well Nike had never counted on this context to "just do it," but I was about to "do it" and there would be no rave reviews for it.

So of course on a very ordinary day just like the parade-less day that Brandon had been snuffed out of my life (I had been eating sweet potato pie--neither Theresa and I needed it--and drinking raspberry lemonade while I haggled with her over that secret ingredient.), I started to come out of my drug-less blur ( had I not been on God's top 10 haters list I would have prayed to be a weed head or asked for guidance on how to cook up a good meth lab. Who needed weed when you went from 10 to 0--mellow to melancholy with the munchies to boot, while your ass got fat enough to force you to apply for a more expensive mortgage--with my luck and descending credit--I'd be turned down flat).

But yes, the simplest thing made me come out of my drug-less fog. I'd been avoiding God and church like I was on the dark side (and probably could have donned a cult inspired Vera Wang gown, accessorized with a vial of blood, with a purse full of harmless looking backwards playing cds that promoted the end of the world and all that wasn't right and fine) but I was tricked by a friend into going to church. I thought I was going out for cheesecake. By now cheesecake had become my only god. I knew every variety by heart and bought so much that a neighbor with nothing better to do than spy, had assumed I was having a party, with my catered cheesecake. She got these huge eyes when she invited herself to my "party" and was turned down flat after I grudgingly explained that the cheesecake was all for moi. Serves her trifling behind right. My friend Angeliece knew that cheesecake, outside of work, was the way to go to get me out of the house and she shamelessly bribed me (by now I had two asses that could have a dialogue about me and were battling over who would get to move into the newer, bigger place to accommodate them). In the back of my mind I really wasn't that stupid to think that Angeliece was getting all dressed up to take me to the Cheesecake Factory (okay, maybe I was just a little stupid--cut me some slack, remember I did flunk out of college) but I had faith at least in the possibility of having more cheesecake. My sense of optimism and faith overrode my suspicions. So I silently so I silently prayed to the cheesecake god and I slipped on some jeans and a wrinkled Ralph Lauren T-shirt, which had seen better days, minus the support bra that my sad depressed breast begged for. I rode in the car silently, hoping all along for cheesecake and not some intervention (I'd been hearing whispered snatches of words here and there amongst friends like "psychiatric facility," "suicidal," and "hairdresser" and all conversation would magically stop once I appeared). I was most alarmed by the fact that I needed a hairdresser. After all, wasn't I still stylish with my spritzed down French roll and bright red lipstick? I didn't want to admit that I was really in deep and needed someone to pull me out of the emotional ditch I was energetically digging for myself, fungi. dead worms, dry rot and all.

After the initial shock at entering my old church ( I felt like a vampire in sunlight with a cross in front of my face) and not the Cheesecake Factory (I quietly cursed as I silently grieved over the chocolate chip cookie dough that I wouldn't have today), I took several small breaths as I spied my pastor, who helped to bury Brandon and several familiar faces. My old friends surrounded me and hugged me. As the service begin it seemed as if God was using Pastor Marks to speak directly to me. Tears warmed my face and I felt the love of my friends all around me. Only one thirtyish guy with a missing tooth seemed to notice that my breasts were missing the prerequisite triple support bra, but he grinned at me minus the one, or was it two teeth, shit, maybe three teeth--yellow at that--as if I had just been graced with a celebrity boob job. My guess was that he'd been in one too many prisons for far too long. Yep, I shouldn't have gotten the big head so fast because my sole French roll, red lipstick and sock-like hanging breast admirer turned to the obviously gay and much more attractive usher, who I noticed did not have a French roll and was swinging mighty strongly in other departments.

After the service, the most healing thing of all happened (no, snag a tooth hadn't asked my breasts out or the usher for that matter). My friend Angeliece asked me about Brandon. I was stunned for a moment, almost feeling as if she'd slapped me and the people around me quieted awkwardly, holding their collective breath. I took a deep breath myself and felt a cleansing, a warming as if I were in my living room before a cozy fire. This was what I had wanted, wasn't it? To share my son's memory and to heal, right? I spoke hesitantly at first and than my voice grew stronger. It wasn't even that special of a memory that I talked about, but it was the thought of just sharing some of Brandon. We joked about a recent birthday party that one of my friends just had for her brand new grand-baby (not ugly--I hope). It was a strange silence, but I finally realized that people just didn't know what to do; they were waiting for me, for my cue, on how to handle things. I was the director of this scene. I could forgive them--even Theresa. All this time, they were just waiting on me. So I told the story about how I went to all these great pains setting up this superman birthday for Brandon only for him to start falling out of his chair at the birthday table and how we would have been okay of it hadn't been for Brandon using the edge of the table cloth. There went down the cake, red, blue and green everywhere--punch, everything! Once I told this story it was like a catharsis and I let the memories comfort me the way my mother had when I scraped my knee or had a bloodied lip. I went on to reminisce about the time that Brandon wasn't supposed to be outside playing on the side of the house and how I tanned his hide when he ran into a Poison Ivy plant.

You see, I feel so much better and I think this is what Brandon wants me to do---to never forget him but to also to move on with my life. I don't know what I am supposed to move on to, but I know that I am supposed to move on, to honor his life and not forget him. I have to find a way to still live no matter how difficult this will be. I always was afraid that moving on meant forgetting but it really doesn't. I believe Brandon and God, both, gave me a sign. I found the gold chain just the other day. It magically surfaced out of nowhere and I hadn't been able to find it for over a year and a half. I am no longer angry at God even though those bastards were never caught. I believe that Brandon and God are speaking to me (not in the I have multiple personalities and hear voices kind of way) and that maybe they are telling me that I did do all of the right things for the most part because after all, they are together. Brandon could be in a worse place (he could be wearing a Vera Wang cross-dressing dark-side inspired gown, along with the vial of blood, peddling satanic cds in hell).

So you know I think I will go out for a bit with Theresa, Shelby and Angeliece and enjoy that chocolate-chip cookie dough cheesecake and maybe, just maybe, I'll pack one or two of Brandon's trophies away in his room and wash those dirty socks of his that have laid on the floor, as if Brandon would claim them any minute--they don't even smell dirty anymore. I'll do this even if it means using a whole box of tissues to get through this moment called living. Life may not be sweet anymore but I still have options. Today: breasts kissing the floor and asses holding my body hostage. Tomorrow: Myspace, boob job, and dates with twenty year olds. Okay, just kidding, but I had to lighten the mood, after all I might relapse and sequester myself in Brandon's room and never see the light of day, thus becoming a hermit-like vampire with the newest goth trend of Vera Wang‘s.