COME TO ME

Momma tells me my auntie appears to my cousins. She doesn't wait for a dream. Aunt Gloria keeps asking for Anky, her husband who survived her by six months. She scares my cousins so badly they run out the house and don't come back until they get somebody to tell her that she's dead. It is because of this that I tell my momma not to come to me if she dies. I didn't know she would go so soon. I think she takes me seriously. Since her death, I wait to see her, to hear her. But I've only dreamed of her twice though not in the way I dream of others.

We're in Roseland Hospital on 111th street south. Momma is on the respirator, and I instruct the doctor to take her off. He pulls the pale tube out, and her dry chest heaves and compresses dead air. Relief. Suddenly, we are at Saint John De La Salle during mass. Momma is standing in front of me with an open missilette in one hand. She's wearing her blue down coat, the one with the torn lining. Her other redbone hand grasps the pew. Her left finger bares the solitary diamond ring aunt Rachel, aunt Gloria's sister, willed her. She was the only girl not married. She doesn't turn around. Because of the ring, I know it's her.

We're in a Chinese grocery store. Momma isn't with me this time. I guess we weren't really together the first time either. I'm in line, checking out, and her back touches my left forearm, as she brushes pass me, without saying "excuse me," to pick from the freezer. I want to face her. To tell her that's not polite, but I watch her open the freezer, reach up, and grab something I can't recognize. The checker rings up my groceries and repeatedly asks for my money: "Two-fifty-four. Two. Fifty-four. Two dollars and fifty-four cents please." The checker, annoyed and loud, gains the attention of shoppers. I wake up before Momma turns around. I only see her hands.