Finding Your Place

A road in Suffolk, Va.

I grew up on a street my mother named. When my parents purchased a three- bedroom, two- bath ranch in Suffolk Virginia, Momma loved everything but the name of the street. Ford Lane didn’t evoke enough whimsy or excitement for my mother, Priscilla. She wrote up a petition, loaded her small brood into the car and went door to door encouraging signatures from the residents. The houses were tucked past farming fields and wooded acres. Once the 10 residents (or so) signed her petition, the “Ford Lane” sign came down and “Mockingbird Lane” sign went up. We staked our claim. We found our place.

When autumn rolls in I long for my home on Mockingbird Lane in Suffolk, Virginia. I love the quote “home is where our story begins,” because the story I remember started there. By this time of year, I’m sure trees behind our home are turning bright red and orange. The forest floor will soon be covered in a red damp carpet. Momma would always start a fire in the fireplace by late afternoon, and from deep in the woods, where my siblings and I played after school, we could smell the aroma of burning oak in the air.

There were hills, ponds, creeks, and caves. We’d get into all sorts of trouble and find a way out. Momma didn’t mind us disappearing for hours at a time, as long as we took our dogs with us. By dark, Momma hollered from the back porch.

“Kids! Supper’s ready!”

Her voice echoed off the hills and down by the creek. We’d practically kill ourselves sprinting through the briars and branches in an attempt to get home fast, so she’d never know how deep in the woods we were.

Colin trying out a rope swing in the Smokey Mountains of Tenn.


I waited for my three boys to become big enough before I took them exploring through the forest behind Momma’s house. They seemed timid following me through the overgrown trail, climbing down the hill, and crossing the creek. It was unknown territory to my Orlando native theme park babes. I glanced back at them. “Come on!” I said. “Don’t be scared. I know where we’re going. This was myplayground.” We reached the creek with the huge hills on each side. The water rushed down creek, making that gushing sound people buy fountains for. Their eyes lit up with boy wonder. “There’s a cave in the side of that hill.” I pointed. “I got stuck in it once. I don’t recommend it. And in the creek, you can catch crawdaddies. We caught some, kept them as pets for a while, but when we got bored with them we boiled them on the stove and ate them. You pinch the tail and suck the head.”

“What did they taste like?” Christian said.

“Mud.” I pointed further down the creek. “Your Uncle Brandon built a bridge there, so we could cross over without wading. We had a fort with a large black rat snake. Longest and fattest snake ever, but he was nice. He just lounged around on the branch above our heads.”
As you can imagine, they looked at their mother differently after that tour. My history lesson bridged the gap between boys and Momma.

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Our last Christmas at Mockingbird Lane.

One day, after that tour, I saw the three of them sneaking off into the woods. I ran out onto the porch.  “Take the dog! You can go, but you must take the dog with you,” I said knowing the dog will lead them home. I sounded just like my Momma years ago.

My parents sold our home on Mockingbird lane a year before my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. Their new lakefront home is better suited to handling our large family when we visit, but the move felt like losing my place, and perhaps a foreshadow to a much bigger loss that was to come a few years later, when my sister lost her battle.

Yesterday, my son Colin told me how much he missed his Granddaddy and Nanna’s house on Mockingbird Lane. “Do you know how lucky you were to be able to play in the woods all the time Momma?” He said.

“Now I do, but when I was your age I couldn’t wait to leave Suffolk.”

“I wish I could live there,” Colin said. “The woods seem to go on for miles. How did you not get lost in them?”

I smiled. “We did on occasion but getting lost was how we learned our way.”


Our conversation made me realize how much place develops a person into who they become, and how often we look out the windows of our place and long to be somewhere else. There was a farming field out my bedroom window on Mockingbird that rotated between, cattle, corn, cotton, and peanuts—yawn– but the most amazing sunsets settled over that field at night. Meanwhile, as a teenager I longed for houses and neighbors.

God knows the value of place. He puts us in places where He can build us. Where our character, knowledge, or influence can be strengthened. He placed the Israelites into the sandy wilderness for forty long years, to teach them obedience and discipline. While we all know they were yearning for the tall grasses of the promised land.

The lake my parents now live on.

Where has God placed you? Are you stuck in an apartment with loud neighbors? Still single? Still longing to become a mother? Stuck in a dead-end job? Battling an illness? Caretaker of the ill?  If you’re a follower of Jesus Christ, there’s a reason for it.

“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28 English Standard Version.

Don’t fret if your place doesn’t have the name you want or it’s not as exciting as somebody else’s neighborhood, for God knows the place you need.  Find contentment and stake your claim right where you are, for if you allow it God can take your external and design your internal.


See you at your place next week…









Half-Naked and Picking Weeds

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When I was a little girl we had this huge garden running alongside our house on Mockingbird Lane. Mornings and evenings when the heat was bearable we’d pull the weeds and collect our bounty in baskets. I can still feel the prickle of the cucumber stems and smell the pungent scent from plucking the tomato off the vine.

            My sister, Tricia and I labored in our underwear. The sun-browned our bodies to the color of mahogany and we’d moon Granny our bright white bottoms because she’d laugh so hard tears spilled out of her eyes. We didn’t have air conditioning in our home until I was almost a teenager. Daddy clutched the coins and feared a high electric bill. In case you’re unaware, summers in the Tidewater area of Virginia can get extremely hot and sticky.

            We didn’t have a microwave either. Momma feared her children would glow in the dark from the radiation. She was a purist when it came to feeding her brood. Most of our food was homemade for she didn’t like preservatives. While Tricia and I raided our cousin’s house for the Pop Tarts. No amount of begging in the grocery aisle would make my Momma cave.

            “That’s junk!” she’d said. “Do you want your poop to turn green? I’ll bake you a banana bread instead.”

            Momma was a firm believer in the color brown, brown eggs, brown bread, brown cereal, brown poop. She was obsessed with us having a good BM (Bowel Movement) every day. This obsession peaked in her wheat germ phase. As I sat guarding my mashed potatoes like a dog over a bone, and hoping Daddy would hurry up… for all things good and decent in this world… and say the blessed blessing so I could get in a few bites before she came around with that jar of brown granules…splat! It was too late, my potatoes were healthy-matized brown.

            “There! Now you’ll get a good cleaning out,” she’d said.

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            I can still picture Momma clad in a halter top and shorts standing by the hot stove. Her dark hair piled on top of her head, while her brown skin glistened from perspiration, cooking up dinner or canning the cucumbers. Without air conditioning, summer meal preparation was a true labor of love. It probably explains why Momma’s lost the joy of cooking today.

  I suppose my nostalgia stems from just returning from taking care of Momma after her surgery. Time has a way of turning the table. I was the one standing by the stove cooking the meals albeit in a nice cool kitchen.


             I haven’t written in a while because I’ve gone through an extended season of illness. I had Influenza B, then strep invaded our home, after that a dear friend named Vanessa who’s been battling brain cancer took a turn for the worse, followed by my trip to Virginia to take care of my parents.

            Meanwhile these last two months, I’ve felt half-naked in the scorching heat picking through weeds while they keep popping up through the soil of my garden.


            Speaking of gardens, we’ve entered the garden season at the farm. The land is plowed and planted. The families on the farm are pitching in, to weed and harvest. We are then going to learn to can the produce in an assembly-line fashion. I’m surprised I’m excited about this, and yes, for all those dirty minds out there, I wear clothes when I garden now. (Farm friends you can thank me later…Ha!) Our last attempt at gardening, we ended up with vegetables rotting on the vine, that eventually sank into the earth and fertilized the soil.


            Lately, I’ve thought about times we feel like that, the times we feel God out of reach or not answering our prayers, the times we think He’s neglected us, left us drooping on the vine. If only we could peer into the future and see our rotten times just may be the fertilizer in someone else’s life, would we be more willing to allow ourselves to be bruised… to feel neglected? 

            I imagine Vanessa feels that way as she lies in her hospital bed suffering from seizures. There were times my sister Tricia felt as if God left her dangling on the vine during her battle with breast cancer, but her rotten part revived the heart soils of those around her.


            The older I get the more thankful I am for the rotten times. I hated my sister’s suffering, but it was through it my husband strengthened in his walk with God. It was through it, we all strengthened our faiths in a God who’s sovereign and holy. My sweet Tricia passed away in the winter of 2014.

            When vegetables rot on the vine, they not only fertilize the soil, but their seeds fall into the earth as well. After the vegetables have been long forgotten, a new shoot springs up from the earth. Lately, I’ve witnessed one of Tricia’s seeds in the green faith of Vanessa.


( To be continued…)

Chapter 8: Memoir

I promised to publish Chapter 8. It may not be perfect, but I wanted to post it during the holidays. While chapter 7 was somewhat sad and dealing with the passing of my sister, all the even chapters relfects back to our crazy childhood. I hope you all had a blessed Christmas, and wish you a Happy New Year ahead.  Enjoy!

Chapter 8:

“Remembrance, like a candle, burns brightest at Christmastime.” Charles Dickens

The city of Suffolk spoons the North Carolina border, and like all southern winters ours produced more rain than snow. When old man winter blew through the countryside it was a big deal, for the limited snowplows never found their way down our street. We were yard-locked until the thaw. Momma insured the fridge was stocked, our faucets dripped, and we were layered up in pjs, jeans, and sweats. To be honest, we didn’t know what proper snow gear was. Momma layered our hands with socks and topped them off with mittens. Our boots felt two sizes small due to the layers of fabric covering our toes.

We stepped out onto the I gasped.

In one quiet night, Winter humbled its siblings by shrouding the dead landscape in something beautiful. For a moment, I marveled at the perfection of it all, before Tricia and Brandon dove off the porch and sliced their boots through with destructive intent.

I high stepped in the opposite direction. Hearing each flake was unique, I scooped up a mitten full, but realized each crystal was too tiny to capture its distinctions. I started to drop the snow, just as a snowball slammed into the side of my head. “Ouch!” I said, holding the side of my face. We played war often with pine combs. This left a different kind of sting on my cheek.

“Gotcha!” Brandon said laughing. I balled the snow in my hand and threw it at him as hard as I could, but he dove out of the way. A chase ensued and just as Brandon spun around to run, he slipped on the snow sprawling out by Tricia’s feet. She straddled him and I climbed on. We pounded him with our weaponry.

“Girls! Alright! Mercy!!” He said laughing.

“Don’t you hit me again!” I said. The cold seeped through my mittens and my knees felt wet. I’d had enough. I walked back up to the porch and tried the door but it was locked. I banged on the wood.

“Where you going Tam?” Brandon said. “We just got out here.”

“I’m freezing,” I said.

“Tammy’s a sissy.” Tricia said.

I spun around. “No, I’m not! Take it back!” I said. In our family, there was nothing worse than being called a sissy.

“Yes you are!” Tricia said.

I saw a shadow pass by the window. “Momma let me in! I’m cold.”

“Tammy, I spent an hour bundling you, now get your butt out there and have fun,” Momma said.

“My body hurts.”

“Your blood has to acclimate. Ten more minutes!”

My teeth chattered, my bones hurt, snow was absolute torture. One of my picture books was a story about a penguin who was the oddball in his family and unable to stand the cold, so he fled Antarctica to live on a tropical island. I found validation in that penguin story. Sorry Winter, your good lookin’ and all, but you’re not my cuppa. I like a  season that can keep a girl warm.

Ten minutes later, I banged on the door. “Momma. Let me in.” She peered out the window as if I was a bill collector. I yanked off my coat and boots and laid them out on the wood stack to show her I meant business.

It worked. The door opened. “You will be quiet and not make a mess, or I’ll send you back out.” I slipped past her. The aroma of chocolate greeted me. “There’s hot chocolate on the stove if you want some.” Now, hot chocolate was my cuppa.
Inside, I was careful not to bother Momma, for I didn’t want her to lock me out in the snow. By the window, I escaped into another world via my imagination, occasionally glancing outside where Tricia and Brandon rolled snowballs into walls and climb on top, proclaiming themselves “King of the Snowball.” When the snow glowed blue from the moon’s light, they came in for dinner. I practically ran to greet them at the door.

Snow was a rare occurrence at Christmas time. Tricia and I popped Christmas records into the player the day after Halloween. Our favorite record was titled The Christmas Tree that Ran Away. It was a story about a Christmas tree who felt unloved. I puttered around petting and consoling my Momma’s houseplants, leaving their leaves bruised and split.

Every November, we begged Momma to put up the Christmas decorations, but she was a firm believer in savoring each holiday as it came, and Thanksgiving should never be slighted its attention. Granny, Pawpaw, and  Aunt Brenda’s family came to our house for Thanksgiving dinner. I think it’s important to note, our maternal grandmother broke the mold. Blessed with a youthful appearance, she wore false eyelashes and heels, and never stepped out without her “face on.” In public, she instructed her grandkids not to call her Granny, but Evelyn instead. Momma and Aunt Brenda rolled their eyes at this, but we found it liberating.

Tricia and I took turns spending the night with Granny and Pawpaw on the weekends, and as much as I loved being with my grandparents, I hated sleeping with Granny. It was like sleeping with the wife of Frankenstein, for she wrapped her hair in toilet paper to keep the style fresh and crossed her manicured hands over her chest. Durning the night, I’d lick my finger and put it under her nose to make sure she was still alive.

“Be still!” Her long red fingernails, whipped around shoving me back into the mattress.

Needless to say, she was a light sleeper.

Pawpaw played dominoes, watched cartoons, and ate junk food. Anytime he saw us he yelled, “Hey Tammy Wammy you big faaat cat,  want a coca-cola? Trisha Wisha, you fat cat grab those cookies on top of the fridge will ya?” All his grand kids were fat cats and he showed his love by making us fatter.

Pawpaw and Granny grew up in Birmingham, Alabama. Pawpaw claims when he left to serve in the Navy, Granny was a little girl. Upon his return, a beautiful woman caught his eye at the Five and Dime. They dated two months, before he went awol to marry her. By the time the military police showed up to arrest him, he was on the train heading back to port. His captain was furious Pawpaw held up the air craft carrier. He was the only electrician aboard, and they couldn’t leave port without him. Cleaning the heads was his retribution, but Pawpaw said it was all worth it to marry his Moo Moo. I don’t know why Granny put up with him calling her Moo Moo, but then again, she called him Poo Poo which is way worse.

Every Thanksgiving, Moo Moo and Poo Poo arrived toting a bowl of Granny’s potato salad, a staple at our holidays that has become legendary. Granny’s potato salad is a creamy potato concoction with finely diced dill pickles, onions, and boiled eggs. Ya’ll don’t knock it ’til ya try it. At dinner, Brandon sat at the head of the kids’ table, and entertained us with his impressions. We never wanted to outgrow the kids’ table, and to this day wherever Brandon’s sitting I’m beside him. Thanksgiving was the kick off for the Christmas season. Momma always said it’s important to spend time being grateful for what you have before you look forward to gettin’ something more.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, Momma lemon oiled the furniture and vacuumed the floors, then out came the manger scene, the elf, the snow man, and long strands of garland she draped on anything that would stand still. We foraged in the woods for wild holly, and filled vases through the house with it.

  Every Christmas, Momma insisted she needed the smell of evergreen to fill our home. The years money was tight, Brandon armed with an axe, his rifle, and our dogs disappeared into the woods beyond the fields, while I kept an eye out for him.

“If you see him holler. We’ll help him pull the tree home,” she said. After what seemed like hours, the trees released a tiny figure waving from the edge of the woods.

“Brandon’s back!” I said.

She ran to the window and looked out. “Okay girls, let’s get our coats.” she said. We helped Brandon load the tree into the wagon and pulled and pushed the tree across the field towards home.

Christmas trees are a bit like people I suppose. Throughout their lives, they need food, shaping, and their dead branches cut off, to turn into a tree that points heavenward. A Cedar tree in the middle of a forest grows a bit unruly, and allows wild animals to burrow in its branches, leaving bald spots; but Daddy trimmed it up as best he could and turned the hole towards the corner. One thing is for certain a wild Cedar smells like Christmas.

One Christmas, the morning after decorating our forest tree I found a zillion tiny bugs on the ceiling of our family room. Momma leaned in from the kitchen holding her cup of coffee.“They must have hatched during the night,” she said, noticing what I was staring at.

“How are we going to kill them all?” I said.

“Kill them?” Momma laughed. “Oh Tammy, they’re the good bugs. If Christ can share His Christmas with barn animals, I think we can share ours with a few bugs. Besides, their cute.”

I couldn’t understand the woman who shot the heads off chickens for pecking her flowers, treated bugs as if they were overnight guests. I knew Praying Mantas as pinching hypocrites, not the holy insect Momma believed them to be. I spent the week with my pants tucked in my socks and eyes pointed heavenward for any mantas wanting to end it all. By Christmas, their carcasses were sucked up by our trusty Hoover upright.

In our home, Christmas was all about Jesus Christ. Our parents never taught us about the bearded intruder. Often, Daddy gathered us around the kitchen table to remind us the real reason for the season.

“Kids, why do we celebrate Christmas?” Daddy said.

“Because it’s Jesus birthday!” Tricia said throwing her arms up in the air.

“That’s right. What’s going to happen if you tell any of your cousins or friends there’s no Santa?” He peered over the rim of his glasses.

“You’re going to beat our butts!” Brandon said smiling. “Right Dad?”

“That’s right Son. It’s up to their parents to tell them the truth one day, not for you to do it.” Daddy said. “I’ll never lie to you. It’s okay if you pretend, as long as that’s all your doing and not believing.”

Christmas Eve night we had a party with Granny and Papa and Aunt Brenda’s family. Granny didn’t like live Christmas trees because of the mess they left on her carpet. Her fake tree was covered in lots of 70’s silver tinsel and these large colored bulbs which became really hot to touch. Behind her back, Momma whispered her tree was tacky. After dinner and sweets, we gathered around that tacky Christmas tree and someone read the story of Jesus birth. We prayed thanking God for the gift of a Savior, before handing out the grandparent gifts. It was bedlam, names were called, paper flew, an absolute mess.

One year, I’d asked Granny and Pawpaw for Star Barbie. Barbies all looked the same back then, but Saturday morning commercials convinced you, you needed to have the newest version with a different name. After I pulled her out of the box, I snuck off into the corner to introduce my old Barbie to my new one.

“You guys are going to be best friends,” I said.

Daddy leaned over me.

“Tammy, what happened to her hair?” He pointed to my old Barbie.

“I cut it off,” I said.

“Why’d you do that?” He said.

“Because she’s going in the army Daddy,” I said rolling my eyes as if he should’ve known that.

“My GI Joe is naked because she stole his clothes,” Brandon said.

“You never play with him anyways,” I said. “She needs camouflage if she’s going in the army.”

Daddy smiled and shook his head. “You see what I’m raising here Granny?”

“I see.” Granny smiled over at me. I knew she approved.

“Tammy always walks to the beat of a different drum,” Momma said.

Throughout my life, that was the phrase they used most to describe me. For years, I pictured Indian drums and me dancing by a fire, but then I grew up.

Christmas morning, we woke Brandon and crept into the den. The presents were stacked under the tree, but we were only allowed to empty our stockings until Mom and Dad awoke. I turned to where we laid our stockings out the night before. They sprawled over the back of the sofa… lifeless.

“Momma,” I pushed on her arm to wake her. “Momma wake up.” I pushed her dark bangs back from the one eye not crushed in her pillow.

“There you are. Hi Momma,” I said. “You forgot our stockings again.”

She threw her feet over the side of the bed and stumbled down the dark hallway into the kitchen. We followed. Standing in the light of the refrigerator, we licked our lips wondering what stocking stuffer was hidden deep in the Frigidaire. She pulled it from the drawer and spun around.

“One for you…one for you…and one for you,” she said, plopping tangerines in our hands. She shut the refrigerator and turned for a bowl on the counter. “Some for you…some for you…and some for you.” She piled nuts in our other hand. “There ya go…Merry Christmas.” She sauntered off towards her room. “Don’t wake me until the sun’s up.”

We glanced at our hands and back at her in disbelief.

Two hours later, we peered out the window for the sun to peek over the trees, and when it did. “It’s time!” Brandon said, shoving me. “Go get Momma.”

I tapped my sticky tangerine fingers on Momma’s forehead. “Momma, time to unwrap our presents,” I said.

“David… David…” Momma shoved Dad. “It’s time.”
“You go on now. I’ll be up in a minute.” Daddy rolled over and faced the wall.

We all knew not to wait for that minute. She squatted by the tree and handed out the presents. “Let’s open these first.” She handed one to each of us.

Brandon ripped into his and yelled “Yes!” to the bongo drums inside.

Tricia opened hers and it was a pair of maracas.

I ripped into the paper, and found two wood sticks. I glanced at Momma to see if it was a joke.

“Now, you guys can play music together!” she said. “Try them out.” Tricia stood up and shook her maracas as Brandon banged on his drums. 

“Tammy, play the sticks,” she said.

“How do you play sticks?” I said.

“Bang them together.”

I tapped the sticks limply, while Brandon and Tricia rocked out.

That afternoon, after all the presents were unwrapped, and I’d forgotten about the sticks, Momma called us back into the family room. “Kids come play music for your Daddy.” she said. Brandon and Tricia grabbed their instruments, and played and danced. Obediently, I picked up the sticks and banged them together. With each beat, believing Momma loved Tricia more.

Later in the kitchen, as I was setting the table, Momma pulled out a chair and sat down. “I noticed you were not enthusiastic over your instrument,” she said.

I shrugged. “Their just sticks.”

“Well, I guess you could look at it that way. They were in a pack, Brandon asked for the drums, so that was a done deal. I had to decide which of my girls would get their feelings hurt the least, and which of my girls had the ability to make music from sticks. I thought it was you.” She stood up. “I guess I was wrong.”

She didn’t apologize for being unfair or for showing favoritism. She didn’t coddle me or assure me of her love. She just stated why I got the sticks. Looking back, I learned a powerful lesson life isn’t fair. When you expect chocolates, you may get a healthy dose of Vitamin C, and sometimes in the midst of the orchestra, God hands you sticks with the expectation you will play something beautiful.

Years later, after Tricia’s cancer diagnoses, we had our annual sibling Christmas dinner and exchanged our usual prank gifts. Tricia handed me a pretty wrapped package.“This is the best gift of the night!” She said bouncing up and down in her chair.

I couldn’t imagine what it could be. I tore open the package.


Chapter 7: December 19th

Chapter 7:

“It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.” Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Christmas rushed in without flourish or elation. The traditional aromas of a basted turkey, pumpkin pie, and Granny’s potato salad vacated Momma’s kitchen, as multiple containers from well-meaning friends moved in. Perusing the contents one could surmise fried chicken and ham is Suffolk’s comfort food. Regardless, grief robs the appetite.

Like the scene from Charles Dicken’s The Christmas Carol, where an abandoned walking stick leans against the fireplace and a tiny chair is vacated, Tricia’s imprint survived her. The bird in the Black Forest clock she purchased for Mom, still coos every hour. Part of me wished the bird croaked out of respect for the departed, but I know time is a healer, for it to stop in the darkest hour would be torture for a grieving soul. God ushers us through the darkness by allowing the birds to coo, the sun to show up in the morning, and the moon to work the nightshift.

Tricia’s hand-painted ornaments dangle from the Christmas tree. They hold a sacred value now. Years ago, she gifted us with her first attempt, a messy painted Orca for my son Nick. It broke. I’d do anything to have it back now. Why do we hold the relics left behind tighter after the benefactor departs? Maybe we’re holding onto to a piece of their talent… a shred of their spirit…proof she once was.

Mom’s den is full of us. We remain a loud lot, still talking over one another. Albeit her voice is silent, as if one instrument is missing from the orchestra. I miss her laughter and that ever smack on the arm she gave you when she found something funny, which sometimes threw you off balance.

I never suspected last Christmas would have been her last. Looking back, I wish I’d known, for it wasn’t a joyful Christmas for her. Unfortunately, some announcements have to be made.

Tracey (Brandon’s wife) walked into the kitchen. “Tricia slipped out crying. She drove off,” she said. I dropped the pan I was washing back into the sudsy water and snatched a towel.

“I was afraid of that,” I said. “We have to find her.”

An hour later, Mom and I gathered her in our arms, and together we mourned over the opposite directions our lives were taking. Like a moving walkway, she was going one way and I another, while both of us wanted to put on the brakes.

The next day, we stood outside our parent’s house, waiting on Momma to go shopping in Smithfield. A wall of tension divided us, both riddled with our own guilt for the day before.

“Look, I’m sorry for yesterday,” she said. “It’s not that I’m not happy for you and Jay, it’s just…hard you know?”

“I would have felt the same way,” I said.

“It’s just this…while you’re growing life, I’m growing cancer cells. You’re getting ultrasounds while I’m getting PET scans.” She pointed towards my abdomen. “Your looking forward to the day you meet your baby, while I’m dreading the day I’m saying goodbye to mine. You’re looking ahead and making plans, while I’m remembering the past and trying hard to hold onto what I have left.” Her sad eyes pleaded with me to understand.

I’d chewed on the irony of our situation, but I’d never truly digested it until then.

“Anyway, I just need you to know how I feel,” she said.

I shivered. A cold breeze stirred up the dead leaves. One floated on the wind past us. I resisted the urge to catch it, allowing the wind to spirit it away. I pulled my sweater closed at the nape of my neck. Tricia was never bothered by the cold.

“It’s not fair is it?” My voice cracked.

She shrugged. “It’s life, but sometimes it’s hard to take.”

“I want you to know I’d never try to get pregnant. I had other plans for my…Well, I would never do that since you’re…” Suddenly, everything I wanted to say at that moment seemed cruel.

She smiled understanding my struggle. “You can make it up to me.” she said.


“Just promise you’ll get really fat,” she said.

We laughed. I should have seen it coming, our traditional jab. The laughter filled me with hope. She’d still love me, though I reflected health and vitality, the very things slipping away, like water through her fingers.

She placed her hand on my baby bump. “You’re already showing.”

“My body just knows what to do by the fourth one,” I said.

Her smile faded as her eyes met mine. “When she comes, I will go.”

Like the quick, feathery touch of a hummingbird across your cheek, for a moment I thought I’d imagined the words; nonetheless, I stepped back as if she slugged me. “She? Wait. What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re going to have a girl, and when she comes it’ll be my time.”

I turned away, so she couldn’t see the pain her words caused me. “You don’t know everything Tricia Baines. Besides, Jay’s track record proves he only makes boy babies.”

She grabbed my arm. “Listen, I know.” She needed me to believe her. It felt disrespectful…shallow even… to argue with someone standing on the banks of eternity awaiting permission to cross.

She looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. The sun shined on her yellowish face and the wind flittered through her short twigs of chemo frizzed hair. “I’m not saying this baby will replace me,” she said. “Of course, no one will replace me.” She laughed. “God just knows you will have a tough time, so He’s giving you this baby to…you know…keep you busy.”

Acceptance filled her voice, like a soothing lullaby. She leaned on her faith for strength and dignity, while I carried the burden of survivor’s guilt, the weight of it left me hunched. I’m sorry for being healthy. Sorry for being pregnant. Sorry I get to see your daughter grow up and your boys get married.  Sorry…sorry…sorry… There was never enough.

That day, I packed her words away in my heart, and the moment I heard my daughter’s first cry they rushed back. Isabella was born without one push, as if she propelled herself into my world knowing her mission, to save Mommy from sinking into despair. I wondered how God could put such a tender heart in me and expect me to survive the stretch it endured on August 7th, a day of great joy fused with incredible dread of what was to come. Isabella came into my life, as my sister was leaving. For a brief moment in time, two precious feminine spirits met in the physical realm, as if the baton of girlhood was handed off, and the weary one passed on into the spiritual.

Twelve days before Tricia died, Thomas held Bella in front of her, and her eyes focused on Bella’s toes.“I see you eyeing those toes,” Thomas said. “Ya’ know you want to touch ‘em. Go ahead.”

Slowly the back of her cupped hand barely caressed the top of Bella’s foot. It was the last touch Bella felt from her Aunt Tricia and cost Tricia all her concentration and energy to give it. The last bit of love she could muster for an infant she would never know.

True to Tricia’s prediction, Isabella Fawn was born at 4:15 in the afternoon, and Tricia died close to that time, nineteen weeks later.

She didn’t live to see another Christmas.