Presidents’ Day to me is not about honoring the fathers of this great country. Yeah, sure, I can rattle their names off and detail their accomplishments; tell you what they did to help mold and shape America. But still, a day set aside for them; many of whom were slave owners that stood on the bloody backs of my ancestors, is something to which I pay very little attention. Instead, I regard that day as Black Monday. It will forever be remembered to me as the day my mother passed away. Six years and counting, but I can still remember each and every moment leading up to the last time I saw her in the land of the living. The good thing is, that after all this time, I don’t agonize over it the way I used to. Her memory comes back to me often just like a boomerang and her spirit lives on in me, my children and her friends. I choose to reminisce over times when she would take me to the lake as a little girl and we would “jook” until late into the evening listening to the Gap Band, Teddy Pendergrass and Rick James. We’d have crabs and barbecue and some of the best potato salad you ever tasted. Man, my momma sure could cook. There are times when I am in the kitchen cooking and I can hear her reminding me to “clean as you go.” I have never forgotten that advice or the tricks she taught me in preparing good food. Her spirit lives on in my heart as well as my kitchen. She would probably toss over in her grave if she knew that as a child, sometimes I would be listening at the walls late into the night while her and her boyfriend were getting busy. My cousin would spend the night with me sometimes just so we could eavesdrop and fantasize about what it was like to be grown. It was funny to me then, but now memories like that make me conscious of the presence of my own children. Eyes always watching, ears always listening, minds quickly scanning and processing all of the information placed before them. I can only be thankful for my time with her. I stand on her back now, the same way past presidents stood on the backs of weary slaves. Her life is my platform. Her memory, the podium from which I speak and her spirit is my well. Millions of people got the day off, slept late and didn’t think once about our country’s revered forefathers. I, on the other hand spent the day remembering, honoring, and missing the only mother I will ever get.
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