No, Momma. That’s Not a Good Memory

I had been out of prison about a year. Finally moved out of my daughter’s house and into my own place.

Hear me say that again… my own place.

I was the oldest of six, mother of four, with nine grandkids at the time—and fresh out of prison.

And this was the first time I lived by myself in a place I achieved on my own.
I had lived alone before as an empty nester, but this… this was different. This was bigger.

I was told I wouldn’t be able to get a place because of my felony.
That I wouldn’t make the kind of money I used to.
That I was lucky to get 35 cents an hour.
That I should stick to trade school or cosmetology, nothing else.

But I wasn’t falling for that.

So here I was. Living alone.
Breathing for the first time without explaining my breath to anybody.

I told my family: Give me one year. No spending the night. Just let me breathe.
My second daughter—the one whose house I had just moved from—looked at me and asked,

“What did we do to you that you need this space?”

And I told her, Nothing. Nothing you did. I’m not going anywhere. You can come over, hang out, use the pool… just no overnights for one year.
It was a boundary I needed. But it upset her.

Still, I kept it.

And in the silence that followed… the thoughts started to come.
The kind of thoughts you don’t hear when life is loud and you’re too busy surviving to stop and feel.

I started remembering. Or trying to.

And I couldn’t find one happy memory of me and my mom.

Not one.

That started to eat at me. So I called her.
And after some small talk, I asked her gently:

“Do you remember any happy times or memories we had? You and me… you with me?”

The pause was long.
I sat in it. I didn’t move. I wanted to hear what she’d say.

But there was nothing.
Just silence, then scrambling.

“She remembered the hole in the floor. But not the hole it left in me.”

“Remember when—oh no, that was your aunt… okay, what about—oh no, that was something else…”
Then finally,

“Remember when you fell through the hole in the floor of the car in the back? That was funny!”

I said, It was? I don’t remember that.

And she said,

No, momma. That’s not a good memory.

We hung up unable to find one together.

And here I was…
54 years old.
That’s how long she had to search for a good memory.
And still, we couldn’t find one.

Rooted in purpose and unfolding in grace, 💛
Sharmain