I woke up yesterday morning afternoon, after a fun night. My mother came in my room to tell me about her night out with the fam. The fun, the laughter, the drinks =). After our conversation, I asked her what she was about to make for breakfast.
“Grits.”
“Grits!?!”
After surfing the net for a little while, my mother finally called my name to tell me that breakfast was ready, but that I had to make my own eggs. Not a problem. I opened the refrigerator, and what did I see? My grandmothers butter dish. It looked brand new. It isn’t, but it sure did look that way. Crystal, sparkling under the refrigerators light, there was Connie’s butter dish. It made my day. I find that everywhere I turn in my home, there is a piece of Connie. Old photographs. Her purple night gown that I slept in last night. Her blue netted night scarf that I tie around my hair before placing the silk, gold and black one on top – for those foggy mornings when trying to avoid major frizz.
Mommy and I watched the remainder of The Great Debater’s yesterday as well. There’s a moment when the younger debater has the blanket pulled all the way over his head, but the tops of it are neatly folded back, where you can see the precise seam. My eyes lit up when I saw that. I said, “Did you see that blanket!?! That’s how Grandma would fold her blanket!”
When I think of my grandmother, I feel like a little kid again. I tried so hard to be strong after she died, that I believe I may have lost a couple of my marbles under the pressure. Deep down I haven’t been the same since. I still smile the same. Laugh the same. Sleep the same. But I’ll never forget the nights that I pulled the cover all the way over my head and cried. Hard. Quietly. The moment that I never broke down. The moment that I kissed her cheek for the last time.
But I’ll never ever forget how she used to pat my head gently and hum, when I’d lay in her lap. She’d always hum, but I don’t think she even realized that she was doing it. I’ll never forget all the times that I’d get my hair done and she’d smile and say, “You look like a brand new nigga!” Funny lady she was. And funny lady she will always be.
So I ate my grits and my eggs and sausage. I never touched the butter dish. I opted for, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter,” just so that the butter dish could continue to sit and shine under the refrigerator light. And even though the light goes out when the door is closed, it’s still there – just like Grandma.
