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My heart broke this morning…I hope that I can cry.

I woke up, like any other day, and geared up to prepare for a Wednesday in the office. Amidst the haze and cloud cover that blanketed the morning, I noticed that my phone was not fully charged, the normal result of some message having come through either last night, or early this morning.
Although the basic concept of this post has been in my mind all day, usually while not in a position to write, it still seems cloudy and jumbled in my mind.
I find it interesting that last night as the National League won the 2010 MLB All-Star Game for the first time since 1996, many people reminisced (or at least people I know) of where they were, or what they were doing during that year. Sadly, I woke up to the news that someone that I had first met later that year had passed.

moth•er1 [muhth -er]
–noun
1.
a female parent.
2.
( often initial capital letter ) one’s female parent.
3.
a mother-in-law, stepmother, or adoptive mother.
4.
a term of address for a female parent or a woman having or regarded as having the status, function, or authority of a female parent.
5.
a term of familiar address for an old or elderly woman.
6.
mother superior.
7.
a woman exercising control, influence, or authority like that of a mother: to be a mother to someone.
8.
the qualities characteristic of a mother, as maternal affection: It is the mother in her showing itself.
9.
something or someone that gives rise to or exercises protecting care over something else; origin or source.
10.
(in disc recording) a mold from which stampers are made.

When I returned back home to start school again locally, I had the great fortune of meeting a fellow student, who I am glad to say is as close to me as family. He befriended me during a time that my singular focus was school and making up for lost time at a blistering speed. I had made the decision, the only thing that mattered was this current education and where it placed me next (as an aside, who would have know what these short next few years would have brought, luckily not a part of this post).
We shared a great deal of classes, and he quickly noticed, though I had my blinders on. A true friend, he noticed that I rode the bus, and somehow saw that I lived minutes from him. On days that we shared classes, he would come by and help me to and from school. As we delved deeper into the school year and classes, and worked on a project we would work on assignments, and it was then that I met his mother, who I painfully hold dear in my heavy heart today.
A mother in the truest sense, just like my own, I remember the first day that I had met her. His car had gone down, and she picked us up from school. She had been sick earlier, but like a mother, always there for their child. As we were minutes from their house, the cars stalls as the electrical system goes out. Although weary from a cold or flu that afflicted her at the time, like a mother, calm and collected, when our attempts to get the car in order were for naught, the three of us walked to the house, and she still offered to prepare something to eat.
I spent many an evening there, working on class work, getting a prepared dinner, even when I had already had home cooking from my mother that same night. And personally, I think we communed because she could see the drive that I had for school at that time, beneath (those who knew me then) my thick braids, clothing, and sparse beard…okay, I’ll be honest, I couldn’t grow any facial hair other than a mustache.
Our friendship would continue, and his mother was always a constant force, asking where I had been when I was gone for awhile. Saying “hello” whenever I would come by. In all honesty it was a reminder back to the days when as a young child you grow up around your close knit neighborhood of friends and their parents.
I remember after my friend got married, and after friends and family had cleared, she and I and the family changed out of our wedding attire, and broke down the tables and chairs of the venue.
Since last week, I have thought of the word “moments.” The one thing that we hold on moments, we remember those great times, the bits and the pieces that make up our memory or understanding of what people mean to us. It is those who have a lasting effect on us that live in more than those moments, or that we allow the value of that relationship to become more than those moments.
As I slowly close, I think to myself of the recurring face, and recurring idea that continues to dominate my thoughts as I move through these events. I understand that we are not promised tomorrow, but at 34, I will be honest, this year has been filled with loss, and I continue to reflect on not saying the things to the people/person that I need to say them to. We can’t say those things when we no longer have the opportunity…With that I simply say and offer that “I Love You.”
I love you Mrs. Burnette White…until that time comes that we meet again.
To the White family, I love you as I always have.

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” – accredited to Dr. Seuss

The manuscript Blue Lines is the fictional coming of age narrative of a young California woman Key Yemaya Walker, and her 2 year growing journey through school, love, and life period piece, written by Kenneth Suffern, Jr., taking place at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill between the years of 1997 – 1998. Loosely based on true events, and experiences during that time, told through the eyes and voice of the main female protagonist, a freshman first attending the school.