Mommy's Girl

Mommy's Girl

Labels: Guest Bloggers

I wrote this when I was 19 after I heard the song below, but I never showed it to my mom.

“Well see, the sun’s in the east and the moon reflects.
Like the knowledge and wisdom, I manifest.
If you want to go to heaven, lay up on my chest.
I’m Ye Yo.”
---Erykah Badu "Ye Yo"

(Ye Yo means mother in Maasai)

Between the echoes of a muffled voice, song lyrics play to the life inside her. The song she sings to her unborn child. The little life inside of her grows each day, feeling a constant revival as her mother breathes life deep into her diaphragm. Everyday, she grasps on to her mother’s laughter…clutches her pain…absorbs her love. Understanding that the woman who is giving her life is the bearer of golden generations. Understanding that she is in line to do great things once she meets the world.

Still, in the depths of her womb, she hears her mother’s voice, and remembers it vividly among the echoes outside the walls.

In a world that can be so dark, I’m able to look into the eyes of my mother and see nothing but light. Nothing but the most beautiful person that I’ve ever met. Someone that I wish, even for a second, that I can just grasp a piece of. A woman whose strength and spirit radiates far greater than her 4’11” frame. But even when I begin thinking like this, she reassures me that I already have more than a piece of her. I have her full lips and her almond-shaped eyes. I have her big smile and her fingertips. I have her compassion and her voice. I have her loud laugh and her charm. I am an extension of her.

Since I can remember, my dad called me Little Tracey because he said I was like a miniature version of her. Every time my mom would go somewhere, she’d yell, “Naé…you coming?” And always: “ Yes, I’m going!” And we’d be out. Her…20-something in the driver’s seat, and me 3 years old in the backseat of the champagne-colored Mitsubushi with my heart shaped sunglasses on…riding out. Anywhere,everywhere, and nowhere. It didn’t matter, cuz I was with my mommy.

Then, the Mitsubishi became the Acura. And the backseat became the passenger’s seat. And we were still on the road together. Whether it was hopping in the car to go to the Jersey Shore, or traveling up and down the east coast looking at boarding schools, or me just want to ride with my mom with no clear destination involved, we drove.

And every now and then, I sit back and just contemplate her love because sometimes I don’t understand it. How does she still embrace me after I mess up in school or when I’ve been moody or annoying? How does she fix everything when I’m upset and at my lowest? How does she have the patience for all of that?

I’ve learned that “people” are flimsy. “People” could care less how you feel. But a mother’s love does allow her to “care less.” A mother’s love makes her feel the pain you are feeling, hurting her in the pit of wherever it’s hurting you. When you laugh, she rejoices in your happiness. When you cry, she feels those same tears rolling down your chin. When you’re heartbroken, her heart is in just as many pieces. But she always musters up enough strength to help you stand back up when you’re down. Protecting you, loving you, and helping you grow. Giving her time and effort and all of her being, just to make sure you’re okay.

Never faulting you. Never walking away. Never giving up on you.

Her hand on my forehead, her voice in my ear, my head on her chest.

There is no better gift than a mother’s love. Like remembering the echoes of her voice resonating.

About the Writer
Tranaé is a freelance writer residing in Washington, D.C. and connoisseur of all things fresh! She also happens to be my little sister, which in itself makes her fresh! Check out her dope moves via Twitter @naesonFBaby