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Make Lemonade
by Yolonda D. Coleman (c) 2024
I chose Georgia as a font today, because it reminds me of the day I traveled unknown roads to a place of safety in Powder Springs. I type this to you, my grandchildren, as an expression of love not out of pain. When my mother died, I had not known how much life would be squeezed out of me until months later, but the universe set things in place for me to pick up the pieces yet fallen so that the blow would be soft.
It was beautiful knowing that our neighborhood Marine organized a motorcade for my mom's farewell ride through Orange County, Florida. I cried seeing just how much she was loved...that others loved her as much as I did. Caring cousins packed their children in cars and headed back to North Carolina. Train tickets were exchanged for seats as uncles and aunts traveled back to D.C. Supportive friends and other family members made their flights back to New York and Connecticut. One person stayed behind to "kick it" just for a moment before the truth set in. With so many expressions of love, I still could not stand the silence of the aftermath of my emotions. Your Auntie Rock was the first person I ran to when the silence consumed me. I sent an instant message with a 24-hour notice. She said, "Come on!" ...and so I did.
My Hyundai and I traveled unknown roads during a time when it was safe for a brown girl to do so without the stress of being pulled over for Driving While Black (DWB). The compact discs (CDs) in my passenger's seat were my companions. A bottle of Coke and a bottle of water were all I needed to make the trip without stopping; I was on auto pilot. It was like God picked me up from cousin Kevin's condo in Tampa and set me on the doorsteps of the two-level home that would be my resting spot until I could gather the remaining pieces of my existence. My outlet was writing, and Auntie Rock let me do that without judging me for running away. I don't remember eating off anything but my words.
The moment I took a breath, I noticed a field of four o'clock flowers growing on a walk through Auntie Rock's neighborhood. They took my breath away because of all the floral gifts God could show me in that moment, He allowed me to see my mom's favorite flowers. I knew, then, things were going to be alright. This was the first step to understanding how to navigate life without my mother. There has been so much loss that I became numb, but I could not cry. My tear ducts closed after my breakdown in the bank line at Safeway on Good Hope Road. Good...Hope...is all I had left after the last tear dropped.
Life hurls lemons. They are not tossed gently in our direction; they are thrown with fury. How we respond to the gust of wind that comes with the impact reveals who we are and what we are becoming. You might start out zesting your lemons on days that aren't so tough. You may use a paring knife to peel the lemons when you have to exert just a little more strength as you face your giants. Ultimately, you'll learn to halve your lemons with a butcher's knife to slice hard and fast with one hand and catch the juicy fruit with the other. NOW squeeze, my grandchildren. Squeeze them with all the breath you have inside you to make lemonade. You're the sugar that sweetens the bitter. When things calm down, take your power back and grow your own lemon trees to change the narrative. Sit and enjoy the love of our ancestors who will surround you around the clock in four corners of your life through happiness, joy, pain, and grief. Then you are charged to do four things: Dream. Sip. Create. Give thanks.
Love,
Mama Ife
