I got home from high school one day to find all my belongings outside on the grass. All my clothes, all my shoes and all my books, thrown outside because I told an aunt about a man who sexually harassed me and how mama didn’t believed me. Mama was my grandmother and she warned me not to tell anyone about this incident, but she never warned me of the consequence if I did.

So I gathered my belongings and found a new place to stay.

For almost one year, I’d see my grandmother walk past my new home, and I’d say “hello mama” every time I’d see her. Sometimes twice a day. Each time I tried I knew she would ignore me, yet I’d swallow my pride and keep saying “hello mama” for months hoping to win her approval, yearning for a response, an eye contact, an acknowledgement, anything in kind only to be met with silence and disregard. 

In my heart, I’d forgiven her for the pain she caused, yet, the wounds remained unhealed. 

Today my grandmother died and I wanted to say “hello mama” just one more time. 

She was the closest and furthest experience I’ve had to a real mother. She taught me everything and nothing. Today, I muster the courage to honor her life.

So here goes....

Hello mama,

Who taught you how to love? It’s so hard to do things you were never taught. It so hard to speak things you’ve never walked. Learning new ways of doing things is always challenging and scary. I see you.

Thank you for trying to love though you never knew what love looked or felt like. I am so sorry no one taught you.

I see now that you were in so much pain so abuse looked like love and if it wasn’t abuse, is it even love? I am so sorry.

I’m sorry you had to perform for love. Performing meant you’d choose me so your children would choose you. That I’d become your responsibility though it was weighty and you were not equip to carry the load. 

A responsibility you didn’t ask for, yet you felt it was worth going after. 

I inadvertently became your target practice. Your intentions - pure, your impact - traumatic.

Mama, who told you you were a “good for nothing”? 

Those words bursted the seams of your heart and gushed towards me and rolled from your tongue towards me, but it did not penetrate, Mama. This time, you missed your target.

I am so very sorry for every bad word spewed at you. Words that made you feel you were unheard, unworthy, undeserving, unloved, unwanted. Words you so violently and willfully passed on to me and those who came before and after me like a proud inheritance. The kind I never wanted, but received it anyway. I am so sorry because we all deserved better.

Who rejected you, mama? That must have been painful because you made it clear that I was not yours nor your son’s and that felt awful. I was a nobody. Now I’m mending my rejection wound, mama, and I am so sorry you never got to mend yours on this side of the world.

It’s so hard to model something that was never shown to you. You did what you knew and there was no one to tell you there’s a better way, and even if they did, you probably would have never listened. Stubborn was your middle name, and the funny thing is, it’s mine too.

Today you died, mama and I wonder if I should tell friends, coworkers or loved ones that the woman who raised me died today, because the truth is, I am not ready to receive their sympathy or compassion or their empathy. I’m beginning to think it’s because it’s hard to see you in that light where there is so much darkness around. 

I worry that my response would be stoic, numb, cold, unmoved, but when I started writing this, I was unexpectedly moved to tears. I see your pain, mama and that’s all I needed, a small crack of light that pierces the darkness.

As light enters and the hard places in my heart softens, may the depths of my heart hold me still. May I remember you’ve taught me well — what not to do, what not to say, how not to live, how not to give, how not to serve and how not to love. 

Pain may have drove my ambition, but it gave me ammunition to remove the stain of words that cut deep - surely, I am worthy. And you, mama, you are worthy of love and compassion. You are worthy of kindness and validation for all the unspoken experiences that kept you trapped in a cycle, trapped because of your unwillingness to see different.

I am so sorry, mama.

The silent presence of your death is a gentle reminder of how scarce time is, but more importantly it calls my attention to the urgency of my healing and my freedom from pain.

I am gathering my belongings, mama, but this time I am only taking what I need and I’m moving to another house. A home where love, healing, compassion, wholeness and freedom dwells. 

This is how i’m choosing to honor you.

May the angel of healing turn wounds into sources of refreshment and may you rest in eternal peace.

With all my forgiveness, compassion and love,

Sabrena