Almost EVERYONE disappeared. Those that didn’t disappear, shut up. Those that didn’t shut up, entered denial. Those not in denial, moved on.
To this date, 12/1/2023, 29 years, 8 months, and 2 days after my Mother’s murder, not even 5 people have EVER come to the house and checked on my Mother’s children.
And let me be more specific, and clearer: Between March 28, 1994 (the day I found her body) and April 3, 1994 (the day of her funeral) there was a swelling of people that called, reached out, and were visible at the different gathering spots. My grandmothers home, the church, the funeral home, and at the repast. From that you would have imagined that support was available and would be available. There was an encouragement there. It was a tremendously tough time and the sense was that we were in good hands. Our families are large. My mother’s friend-groups and social circle were large. The extended family and community was large. The work friends that had been part of our lives was sizable. It was assumed that at least some of these people that had been part of our lives for many years, were going to still be there in some capacity. Not that anyone OWED us that. You’d just assume that humans have it in them to care and show concern for humans, especially children, in a time like the one that we experienced.
Nope. Nah. Not.
Family. Friends. Her coworkers. The Church family. The Jehovahs Witness family. Extended family.
The entire “village” that prior to her death was an intricate and absolutely visible part of our lives, gone!
I dare more than 5 people to challenge me on that. I wish more than 5 people could.
Over the last couple of weeks I’ve received phone calls from a bunch of people that have submitted their reasons for being absent. Everyone has a reason. An excuse, a justification, a thought, an assumption. An apology. I’ve been getting a lot of apologies.
The stupid me is so forgiving.
When I heard that lady was going through what she is going through, I prayed for her. I don’t know if it was a reflex or what I deemed as an adequate response. To continue to exhibit what I’ve exhibited in the form of “strength”, resilience, patience, courage, bravery. I’m not sure why I immediately thought to pray for her. Thought to pray for her children.
I imagined my Mother at her side. Praying for her. Praying with her. Comforting her and petitioning God to ease her pain.
My stupid-ass.
But then a sadness came over me. A grief and a pain. A striking feeling of hurt and guilt. I questioned the guilt. What I was I feeling guilty for?
She hurt us. She hurt me. She hurt my Mom. She destroyed our lives. She did something that could not be undone. She said she was going to do it.
She’d done many things before that day that proved what she was capable of. She’d shown a propensity for and having possession of a prospect for violent words and behavior. I’d witnessed a lot of that first hand. I was there for the arguments and the fights. I was there when she pulled the gun on us, 8 months prior to my Mother’s murder. I saw the things she was doing to intimidate and put fear into my Mom. I was present when the police were called on numerous occasions.
So why am I feeling guilty?
Because I realized in that moment, after learning that she is about to die, that I’d been hoping for “justice” all this time. I’d been silently and patiently anticipating the day that she would confess or be found guilty, and the resulting effect being that everything broken from this would be fixed.
I had hoped that after all this time, her being brought to, or bringing herself to, justice, would correct the EVERYTHING that fell apart. I didn’t notice that I felt this way over all these years. But in hearing that she was in such a bad way, I recognized what would soon not be possible. In that I acknowledged that I’d gone to bed every night, and woke up every morning, for the past 29+ years with a dream, hope, and belief, that this would change.
(Cont’d…)
©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers
