My mother is almost six feet tall.

5′11 for whoever is curious.

I am barely five feet. 5′1 for whoever’s wondering.

As you can see, my mom is tall and that means that her eight other siblings: Jack, Jackie, Jackson, Annie, Francine, Aimé, Michelle and Noelle are equally if not taller than she is.

On September 6th our pastor called me into her bedroom and there stood the three eldest siblings: Francine, Annie and Aimé like three beautiful angels. My aunt Annie was particularly hard to look at because she is a spitting image of my mother.

Mom. On September 6th people walked inside the house with their shoes on. I know how much you hate that.  Mom, there are people in the living room with their shoes on. Mom, on September 6th I was inside the house and you weren’t there. There are people flying in and out of this home and none of them are taking their ******* shoes off.  As if the ground where your body had lain a few nights before was *****.

Sometimes I can’t even look in the mirror because all I see is you. I see the woman you created. The little girl that you raised. The little girl who would put her head on your lap when the world was being mean to my four feet tall stature.

Mommy. I am so sorry. I was an absolute demon to you. I ignored you just as much as I avoided you but you also have a part in this. I hadn’t woken up one morning and decided that I wouldn’t speak to you or that I’d move to a different city. These type of things build up. They accumulate and yet, I mourn you like the messenger of God you believed you were.

Mom, I am so so sorry.