Page 1 of A Taste of Grace

Goodbye

“Sister Toliver is in the sweet arms of Jesus.” Elder Reed’s deep Southern drawl boomed across the southwest corner of the 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 educational progress 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.

I was proud that I did not let that emotional abuse prevent me from centering Mama.

I shielded her from the hell that was happening as best I could, but my mother was nobody’s fool.

Our family strife was probably what took her out sooner than the hospice nurses predicted.

As the matriarch of a complex family, Mama most likely died of a broken heart and probably worried if I would be able to survive without her.

My eyes gravitated to the fragrant spray of white and pink roses on her casket.

“The service was beautiful, Mama. Please don’t be angry with me, but I can’t live without you,” I spoke softly and eyed the plot of land next to us, realizing that soon, I would be buried there.

Fresh tears rose as I stood with my hands clasped in front of me. My eyes blurred as I pictured how no one would be at my funeral the following week. They’d be preparing for festivities with their loved ones right before the Christmas holidays.

“Do you need anything else?” The elderly mortician interrupted my thoughts.

His extended hand lingered near my arm as if he genuinely wanted to comfort me. The faint scent of his cologne met my nose, reminding me of my late father and how he never left home without smelling good. As he peered into my eyes, waiting for me to say something, hot tears burned my throat.

I wanted to pour my broken heart out to this stranger who asked the right question at the wrong time. I wished someone, anyone, had asked me what I needed weeks ago, but it was too late for that now.

“No thanks. I’m fine.” I spoke the words with a crispness that sounded rude and dismissive, but I didn’t care.

“Okay. We’ll drive you back to the family home since there’s no repast.” He spoke his words slowly, never taking his eyes off me.

He turned his broad body sideways, extending one arm to the late-model gray limousine parked on the side of the road and the other arm toward me as if he was waiting to catch me if I collapsed.

I straightened my spine and nodded, following him closely. I took deliberate steps, remembering to keep my smile intact until we reached the car.

“Thank you again,” I said softly as he opened the door and finally stopped staring at me with concern.

When I entered the vehicle, warm air from the backseat vents hit my face.

Tender, contemporary gospel music filled the high-end speakers, tempting my body to sway as the choir’s three-part harmonies promised hope and renewal.

Their words threatened to embrace me like a hug, but I shut my eyes and blocked out that warmth. It was too late for all that.

Instead, I allowed my body to go limp, bitterly thinking how critical people were probably being about not having a repast for my mother, who was one of the best cooks in the county. I didn’t have enough time or energy to do more than plan the service and contact everyone about the funeral.

Thank goodness for that kind mortician. He would do a great job with my service too.

We slowly began the trek toward my childhood home. Familiar landmarks, the Piggly Wiggly, the community bank, and my high school, all decorated in festive Christmas lights, met my eyes for the last time.

Could I have done something differently? Something more? I clenched my fists hard and dug my nails into my flesh so deeply that the black lace on the glove in my right hand tore against the thin fabric.

Nothing mattered or made sense anymore. I was alone, abandoned, unloved, unseen, unheard, and invisible.

The last person who truly ever saw the good in me was dead in the shiny box at the cemetery.

Death made more sense than life. Thank goodness that tomorrow, on my fortieth birthday, this pain would finally end.