Page 1 of A Taste of Grace

Goodbye

As the icyrain lightly tapped the navy-blue canopy of the tent during the final minutes of my mother’s intimate gravesite service, I mentally ran through my plans for the rest of the day. After I tidied up at my parents’ home, I would drive a couple of hours to Selma, Alabama, and then jump off the Edmund Pettis Bridge, the historic location of 1965’s “Bloody Sunday.” This time tomorrow, I would be an ancestor.

“Sister Toliver is in the sweet arms of Jesus.” Elder Reed’s deep Southern drawl boomed across the southwest corner ofthe massive Loving Gardens cemetery as he stared at me with droopy eyes.

He concluded his words with a faint smile and raised bushy eyebrows as if he needed validation from me about my mother’s spiritual destination. Since I had learned how to people please over the years, I gave him what he wanted, a closed-mouth nod of appreciation with my eyes crinkled at the corners. I hoped that gesture encouraged him as he poured what he probably thought were perfect words to console me.

I adjusted my body in the funeral home’s wobbly front-row folding chair, moving to the edge to steady it. My sunglass-covered eyes darted to the oversized flag pole across the cemetery then to raised headstones of various shapes and sizes as far as the eye could see. I clasped my hands in my lap, lightly tapping my right foot over the turf covering the wet ground beneath me to work off nervous energy that had been building all day.

The elderly mortician stepped into Elder Reed’s spot and threw another sympathetic glance my way.

“On behalf of the Going Home Funeral Home, we thank you for entrusting your loved one to our care. You could have chosen anyone during your time of bereavement, but you selected us. We offer our heartfelt condolences to Ms. Toliver and the Glass and Toliver families.” He gestured to a smattering of aunts, uncles, and cousins who stood behind and sat beside me.

Instead of looking their way, I lowered my head and closed my eyes, lifting my crumpled tissue to my right nostril.

Y’all are pissing me off so bad right now.

As the mortician droned on, I reflected on what led me to my low mental state.

Life had become unbearable since I got caught in the crosshairs of a national political battle that resulted in me being one of the casualties of conservative disdain for educationalprogress and equity. With little fanfare, I lost my federal job over a month ago.

It had not mattered that I earned a doctorate from Princeton University and served as a senior appointee in the Office of Educational Innovation and Strategy, supervising more than fifty people in our Washington, DC office. It wasn’t enough to have accolades a mile long.

My career shifted without my permission. I had no one else to rely on when my bills kept coming, and I had to manage the affairs of two households.

I barely had time to care for myself as my mother entered her final days of hospice care. As she got weaker, my spirit broke more. I often cried silent tears, praying for a miracle that never came. Over time, I lost hope for my future.

Real tears finally left my eyes as the reality of my life hit me like a blow with a baseball bat. Mama and Daddy sacrificed so much for me to be successful, but I had nothing to show for it. No one would miss me.

I inhaled and smiled faintly, taking in the chilly winter air. I raised my eyes toward the sky as the sun tried to peak through the grayish-blue clouds. That beauty was my confirmation that Mama, Daddy, and I would be together before the new year began.

Like those who marched across that bridge in 1965, I fought the good fight, but it was my time to go. I took another big breath, accepting my fate.

But where was the God my parents taught me to serve? Sadness and anger quickly overtook me as I realized how unprotected I was. He betrayed and abandoned me, ignoring my cries for help when I needed a reprieve from the pressures in my life.

I shut my eyes tightly as heaviness that never went away rested on my heart and mind and nearly suffocated me.

Don’t scream.

I willed myself to maintain my composure as everyone around me acted normally. This farce of a funeral service may have meant something to them, but to me, it was a permanent stain on an unfulfilled promise of protection and hope.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” My mother’s brother, Uncle Keith, the kind one who always smelled like sandalwood, bent down and reached for my hand, interrupting my thoughts.

He had always been focused on his business as a car dealer and came across as clueless when it came to family matters. Like my mean as rattlesnake aunts, he was a senior citizen, but at least I didn’t have to fight him like we were peers. Thank goodness he behaved with some semblance of sense a sixty-five-year-old man should have.

“Thanks, Uncle Keith.” I held his watery eyes and received what I believed were sincere condolences.

Despite his kindness, I gave him the fake smile I perfected to mask my pain.

“Time to go, Keith.”

Both of us whipped our heads around to my sixty-seven-year-old aunt, my mother’s youngest sister, who treated me like a wayward stepchild my entire life. Her shrill voice cut through the sacred silence of the space like nails scraping the center of my heart.

“Coming. Take care, Grace, and call me if you need me.” He gave me a quick nod and patted my hand again before walking in the direction of the family cars parked behind the limousine that brought me to the cemetery.

Everyone entered their vehicles and pulled off, leaving me alone as I stared at the metallic peach casket I chose for Mama. She would have been pleased with my decision since she loved warm colors.

The silver lining of my mother’s death was that I would never have to deal with those heartless heathens again. My mother’s sisters made my life hell as I took care of her. From busting in the house to steal my grandmother’s mementos or reporting me to the state’s elder care services program with allegations of abuse, I learned quickly they had no care for me.

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