The last words my Mother said to me were, “Corey, don’t you want to stay home with this weekend?”
I told her no.
That was Friday, March 25, 1994.
We were on our way to my Dad’s house for the weekend. Like we normally did.

The next evening, my Mother called to check on us. She talked to my little brother. She spoke with my little sister. My sister had gone on a field trip that day, a trip to The Escapades. My mother spoke with her for a few minutes about how the trip had gone. I avoided the phone call because I didn’t want her to tell me I had to come home early Sunday, for church. Church wasn’t fun. We had fun at my Dads house.

She didn’t call Sunday morning. She didn’t call Sunday at all. My Dad told us to get our stuff together, that he was about to take us back home so that we could get ready for school the next day. We left out of his house at 7:30pm. We arrived at our house at about 7:55pm.

When we pulled up to the house the first thing we noticed was that the porch light was off. My Mother always made sure the porch light was on. Especially if we were not there, so that the front of the house was illuminated, and safe.

I figured that since the light was off, she probably wasn’t home. We got out of the car and made our way to the front door. I used my key and opened the door instead of ringing the bell.
When the door opened I stepped to the side and let my little sister and brother in. I flicked the switch inside of the house and turned the porch light on. I waved to my Dad. He pulled off.

There was a terrible smell in the house. The first thing I said was, “Momma boobooed.” We laughed. We were kids. We didn’t know any different.

The house was pitch black. No lights were on. I still assumed that she was gone.

We made our way through the living room and entered the hallway. My little brother hit the hallway light switch.

“Momma is here.” He said.

She was in her bed. She was lying with her head at the foot of the bed. Her head was facing the right, on her folded arms.

“What’s that on Momma’s head?” My little brother asked.

“Her hair”, I said, while simultaneously pulling her door closed to prevent our noise from waking her up. I did not want her to wake up and start giving me things to do. I had looked over towards the kitchen and saw that there were dishes in the sink. Even though I hadn’t been home all weekend, any dishes in the sink while I am in the house were my responsibility, whether I made them or not. Her rule. I was going to pretend I didn’t see them and just wake up super early and do them, before school.

I instructed my little sister and brother to wash up and get to bed. It was bedtime. I did the same. We were in the bed and all sleep by 9:30.

The phone rang in the middle of the night. It was weird. At like 11:00pm. The ringing was loud and I woke up out of my sleep. My mom didn’t answer it. I heard the answering machine kick on. They didn’t leave a message.

I woke up again at 5:00am. This time I got up and got straight to those dishes. I figured I could hurry up and wash them before she got up at about 5:30. Doing the dishes in our house wasn’t just washing and rinsing the dirty dishes. They had to be dried and put away, the stove and countertop had to be cleaned, and the floor had to be swept.

It was after 5:45 when I was almost finished and looked over at the clock, realizing that my Mother was not up yet.

I went and knocked on her door. No answer.

I finished the kitchen and I walked back to her door. I knocked. No answer.

My Mother had that rule that Black folks have: If my door is closed, knock. If I don’t answer, wait until I do. Do not walk into my room without my acknowledgment or permission.

She was serious about that. I’d violated that rule somewhere back in my childhood. I knew the penalty and punishment for disobeying her rules.

I knocked again.

Without much consideration for her rule, I started towards the doorknob. I had closed her door the night before. Not that it gave me the right to open it, but I felt I’d use that as an argument when she started fussing at me. But I figured that she’d be okay with the fact that I was waking her up from oversleeping and preventing her from missing work. Plus, I’d cleaned the kitchen. I was on it! She was not going to be able to be that mad at me.

I opened the door.

That wasn’t hair on her head/face.
It was dried and coagulated blood.

That wasn’t booboo.
It was the smell of death.

She was dead.
She had been dead since Saturday.

That’s why the light wasn’t on.
She wasn’t able to turn it on.
That’s why she didn’t call.
She wasn’t able to call.
That’s why she didn’t wake up for work.
She wasn’t able to wake up.

—-

And this is what I’ve been told to move on from for the past 30 years.
Knowing who did this. Knowing whom said they were going to do this. Knowing who had done things up until this point that showed they were capable of doing this. Knowing the details, history, and evidence that laid out who did this.