I remember it as clearly as I do the birth of my first child, my first kiss or receiving my 1st place trophy for our championship victory in the 8th grade basketball tournament. Yet it was not celebratory as the aforementioned or at least not initially. For most of my childhood and adolescence, my most chilling fear would be to lose my mother. She had a chronic bronchitis condition that plagued her viciously. There were many asthma attacks that would leave her coughing, wheezing and confined to hospital beds all too frequently. I hated having to witness her suffer in this condition.

    

     It placed a perpetual sensation of worry and fear inside of me. I was an 11 year old, frail young boy with a 3 year old sister and a father who was incarcerated. The merciless, crime-ridden, drug-infested streets of Chicago were more than enough to handle as an adolescent. Now I was doubly fearful with a younger sister and an ill mother to protect and look after.

 

      The hyper brain activity resulted in me suffering epileptic seizures. Alas, yet another reason to worry. My mother, despite her condition, had a heroin addiction that seemed uncontrollable. I recall the terrifying nights my younger sister and I were left alone in the house while she sought to satisfy her urge for that opaque, powdery substance which breathed death into so many others. I was obedient to her demands, yet the fear I would feel as she roamed the streets was overwhelming.

   

      One can only imagine the inner turmoil of young boy sleeping next to his baby sister’s playpen to guard against rats while in the home alone with no supervision. My maternal grandmother, due to motherly instincts, had suspected such activity due to my mother’s erratic and unusual behavior.  Grandma, as we called her, would become my source of consolation and comfort during this chaotic period.

    

     She was a short, stout and very attractive, silver-haired woman for her age. Pious and loving to a fault, she consistently scolded my mother for her domestic irresponsibility. I thought this happenstance coupled with the release of my father from prison would offer new hope to a gloomy and morbid situation. I felt that mama needed the input, criticism and help from others to avoid the pitfalls of danger that lay await for her due to her heroin abuse. It was to be a hope that was utterly short-lived and never fulfilled.

 

     I recall the night that the ultimate fear would be realized. I lay asleep on the top bunk while my younger sister occupied the bottom. Mama had suffered a severe asthma attack that would keep her confined to the bed for most of the evening. In my attempt to comfort her, I jumped from the top bunk and entered her room. I rubbed her head and attempted to assure her that all would be fine. She turned to me said “Ian, I don’t think I’m going to make it”. I replied “Don’t say that Mama, what will we do without you?” She replied “You might find out tonight”. At that instant my father entered the room and ordered me back into my bedroom.

    

      I climbed upon the top bunk again and eventually fell asleep. Later that night I was awakened by commotion. As I raised my head, I could see paramedics taking my mother out on a stretcher. I jumped from by bed and ran to the staircase. My cousin was there on the second landing, crying uncontrollably. My heart dropped to the bottomless pit. I knew something terrible was imminent. I rushed downstairs to find Grandma in the living room with fear and dread consuming her facial expression. I woke my sister and brought her with me to the first floor.

                       

       Frantically, I asked Grandma about the condition of Mama. She was hesitant to answer, yet finally notified me that they were working on her in the ambulance. I insisted that she take me outside to where Mama was. After initially refusing, she finally relented and walked me and my younger sister to the ambulance, outside of which my father was standing in a rather dazed and somber manner. Grandma then asked my father about Mama’s condition. He replied tearfully “She’s already gone.” Upon hearing this and witnessing the ambulance slowly pull off I let out a scream that could be heard around the world and attempted to chase the ambulance only to be restrained by my father.

    

     “This couldn’t be happening”, I thought. “Why?” I questioned. “Where is GOD?” I pondered. “Of all the prayers I‘ve recited and the many times I have called for his help, why hasn’t he answered?” I reflected repetitiously. I was shattered and distraught. I couldn’t eat a full meal for almost a week. I cried over and over continuously. My sister was too young to understand. How could I make her realize what had just happened? I didn’t know how I would continue to live without the sorrow I was feeling. Then came my answer.

 

     The day of the burial was gloomy with a dark overcast and continuous rainy drizzle. It felt as if I was in a never ending nightmare. I remember the priest throwing ashes on the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. In my head I knew this was final. I would never see Mama alive again. I wept uncontrollably. I looked around and saw most of my relatives responding similarly. There were loud cries and weeping amongst the funerary crowd. I cried so hard that it resulted in a nosebleed which stained the coffin. I felt like dying just to be with her. I no longer wanted to feel this emotional turbulence that consumed me mercilessly.

    

     The weather made it worse. I felt as though we had been abandoned by the GOD who we were told to love and seek refuge in. “How could such a sad situation end like this?” I thought. My mother is dead. Her body is being lower in the ground amidst rain and mud. Everyone is sad at her untimely departure. She was only 31 years of age. For the first time I saw my father break down and Grandma become weak and vulnerable. I was kneeling over watching the casket go down slowly and feeling as though there was no hope, no future and no GOD.

 

     Suddenly, there was an event that would transform my life forever from that point. Miraculously, the rain stopped, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine shone around the exact spot of the burial site. I looked up and saw this magnificent display of sunlight surrounding myself and my mother’s casket. All in an instant, a feeling of warmth and reassurance encompassed me. I felt, with no uncertainty, that Mama was in a better place. I knew somehow she was alright and that my family and I would make it through this tragic ordeal.

 

     In some way, I knew that there was an eternal presence that would always accompany me no matter how difficult or devastating the situation. I knew that if I sought this presence at all times that I would neither falter nor fail. I knew at that instant I had been lifted up and consoled by the bosom of GOD. YES! HE had heard my prayers and had seen my tears! YES! HE was with me! YES! HE was real and would continue to be my eternal friend forever more!

 

(Dedicated to the loving memories of Bernadette Blakey and Lucy M. Cephas)

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-Ian Blake is a behavioral science major, artist/activist, Chicago Hip Hop pioneer and freelancer who writes web content, ad copy, poetry/prose, songs, and much more