I miss my mom beyond words at times. Some days are difficult to grind through, but I put on a happy face, hold down my responsibilities, parent with joy, and partner with patience. “Power through, man the fuck up.” is the militant mantra for men in this production and power drunk world. I hate it – yet must survive in it. Other days bring flow, like wind or water, effortlessly wooshing through life’s experiences with little friction and wild momentum. “Be like water” as Bruce Lee advised. I prefer the honesty of flow and loved watching Bruce Lee movies with my mom.
I miss her because she saw me, knew me, and loved me for all my greatness, all my flaws, and all my potential. She loved me unconditionally in every moment which made me feel seen, heard, safe, and capable of incredible things. She learned unconditional love from my grandfather who knew no enemies and lived a curious and joyful life until the beautiful old age of 95. This means that unconditional love is genetically bound to my bones, woven into my DNA, part of me to give and receive. Today, as the 4 year anniversary of my mom’s death, I morn the loss of a life that loved me, that flowed with me unconditionally.
Her dear friends and now mine, Mike and Lisa, found her a few days before she passed, unconscious and emaciated in her home. They called my family and eventually called me with the news. I can remember Mike saying plainly and kindly, “It’s time – you need to come out here and see her.” I heard this while on a walk with my kids since COVID had closed down the school. As we slowly walked home I started checking for flights, a rental cars, and places to stay. I packed my bags, Laura took me to the airport, and to California I went.
My mom was known as Brandy to some and Ilambe to others throughout her life. Brandy is a name she got while bartending and Ilambe was a name given to her as a child growing up in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. In 29 Palms, I think most people knew her as Brandy. She lived in a single wide trailer in the middle of the Joshua Tree desert surrounded by short branchy bushes and miles of stunning views. It was beautiful, her little patch of paradise that she meticulously adorned with spiky plants, desert treasures she found on long walks, and safe places for wild life to drink water and get some food. I would visit her as often as I could from Atlanta before she passed. I couldn’t get her to travel anymore, so it was on me to trek out to see her and while it was difficult, expensive, and time consuming – I treasured the time I get to spend out there with her. We would watch old movies on her small TV together, sit in her tiny kitchen and talk life, go on walks towards the horizon, and take a drive to DQ to get rootbeer floats. At night, we would star gaze in silence, bundled in blankets, sitting on the cold sand, staring up into the cosmos. Shivering a bit, I remember thinking that we were not just looking at the stars, we were experiencing them. We were listening to their stories – we just had to be quiet and patient.
My mom prepared me for her passing. Heck, we prepared together. A couple years before, we got her will and medical + financial power of attorney paperwork together. We talked about what she wanted to happen when she passed, filled out a form I brought, and got it signed and notarized. That was the easy part, the paper work. The hard part was preparing my heart, which took years. She would joke at times since I was a teenager that I would, “find her dead in a ditch.” We laughed a bit, moved on to less gruesome subjects, but my mind lingered on what she was telling me. One day, without my control, she would be gone. It wasn’t traumatic it hear it, I didn’t and don’t fear death. I didn’t dwell on her eventual passing, but realized that what she meant was that every moment with her mattered. Every moment with me mattered to her. This made me aware that that every goodbye, every hug and kiss on my forehead, every conversation on the phone, every voicemail, every beautifully written letter from her could be my last. So, I gave her my everything, everytime we interacted. Fully present, fully grateful, fully loved to her and by her. As unconditional as I could be. All of me.
I miss this flow with her. I miss feeling the safety she gifted me and am incredibly grateful that I got to receive it from her. The gift of unconditional love isn’t one to horde, control, or lock away with a key. To abuse it is to lose it. Unconditional love is a gift to share with others, with those that can flow with it.
My mom, Christine Lynn Davis, passed away while in hospice care in Joshua Tree, California in 2020. She was only 66 years old.
I love you mom. I miss you mom. Talk soon.
Thank you to…
- Lisa and Mike for being there for my mom as dear friends and transferring your kindness onto me – I am eternally grateful
- Roshi Joan Halifax for being an incredible pen pal through this over the following months
- Alia for your guidance and incredible compassion when I was losing it between trips to the emergency room and hospital
- Heidi at Campbell House for accommodating me so quickly during this emergency trip
- To the guy at the pet store that helped me find a cat carrier, research airline protocol, and help me find a vet while I was crying at PetsMart
- Grandfather and Uncle Peter for talking with me as I made very hard decisions
- My brother Jamaal and Dad for holding me close with your words and supprt
- To that FUCKING cactus that stuck in my shoe, slowed me down to a crawl, and pulled the car over right before the hospice nurse called me
- To the moth that landed on my hand as I left my mom’s side for the very last time – thank you for the memory. I keep seeing you around!
- Greymolken, mom’s Maine Coon with a crooked tail. Thank you for your meows, adventures, and joy we had together in Atlanta. You brought the spirit of my mom to live with me, Laura, Juliette, and Grayson for a bit.
Hello, I am Shelton. 