Children have a reputstion in society. They are seen as young short individuals, who, like sponges, soak in their surrondings. They always seem to brimming with imagination and positivity.
As a child, I possessed all of these qualities - and more I felt invincible. My actions could never have consequences. The fiction of my dreams could become non-fiction in a split-second. Anything and everything I wanted could be obtain with the clasp of my tiny hands. One event in my life changed it all.
It was a warm, sticky day in the South and the only relief to the weather seemed to be water. I was in my room, playing with dolls when my mother hastily ran in my room, hurrying me along with hand-motions.
"What's wrong? Where are we going?"
My apparent confusion didn't seem to pierce her thoughts as she dressed my brother.
Within ten minutes, we were on the outskirts of a large lush complex. I remember passing the wooden sign that I had come to know.
"Glenwood Forest" meant we were going to grandmother's house.
When I entered familiar faces filled the room to the brim, but they puzzle me - why are they here? What's going on? Why is this happening?
It took me a few moments to realize my aunt and mother were talking in hushed drawls, and my aunt's eyes were pink and watery.
Out of frustration, I began to cry. My mother, without a word, lead me to the den and I plopped down on the buttery couch.
"What is going on?"
An assemblage of my cousins and great aunts pooled in the room.
My mother kneeled down to my level and her eyes, identical to mine, met with mine. Her mouth seemed to struggle with the words.
That in itself is a warning sign - my mother tongue-tied.
"Your..Ma. Ma is in the hospital."
"Hospital? Is she sick? Is Nene in the hospital too?"
"Jacqueline...Ma has cancer."
Like a searing light, a memory came to me. It was the spring, and flowers were blooming in shades of purple and pink. I was inside, watching the television. A commerical for a cancer charity came on, and as my mother passed, I asked what cancer was. "Cancer doesn't have a cure, so if they can't fight it, or it spreads, the person might pass away. We have to count our blessings."
I began to wail. The sound seemed to loud to come from a seven-year-old girl. My mind was beginning to proccess everything- how my grandmother smoked cigarettes to "keep the bugs away" from the balcony of her apartment, and how in the first grade I learned that cigarettes could increase the risk for cancer. In that moment, that faded moment in the book of my memory, all I can remember is the utter despair that my beloved grandmother would pass away before my eyes.
Countless visits to the hospital and tears passed as seasons changed; birthdays and holidays passed and the only constant.
