Chapter 1: Never Say What You Won't Do

Chapter 3: Never Say What You Won't Do

All rights reserved @ 2011 Author D.A. Jackson

Chapter Three

Our white 1980 Ford Granada came to a shrilling halt.

“Baby stay in the car for a minute, momma will be right back.”

“Okay momma”

I sat in the car, ignition still running, while my mom ran into a corner store. Even though it wasn’t legal to leave a minor unattended like that, hindsight tells me she was too upset to care.

Emerging moments later with a silver can in a small paper sack and a pack of Newport cigarettes, I saw sheer relief illuminating from her face as she walked back to the car. What she had just acquired from the store was her life jacket now.

 Yea, she was most definitely upset. The only time I ever saw my mother smoke cigarettes is when she was angry. It wasn’t often, but when the time came it was one cigarette after the other until the pack was gone.

The glare from the summer sun burned my cheeks as I pressed my nose against the thick glass of the passenger window. The air conditioner was on full blast and it caused the ribbons on my ponytails to churn all around my head like colorful snakes.

 My mom’s hair didn’t budge a bit, except for a few loose strands that framed her long thin face. The pony tail that hung loosely down her back was too thick to move. Her hair was long, soft and golden-brown hair just like the color of her eyes. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen and she always will be to me.

Five feet 8 inches tall, she had skin the color of French Vanilla Ice cream. My Granny says her looks came from Grandpa’s side of the family. His mother was Creole, and born in Monroe, Louisiana.

The tears were still falling as she drove tempestuously down interstate 35. I felt so sorry for my mother.

“Momma, are you gonna be okay”

“Yes baby, I will. It’s just gonna be you and me now. You hear me?”

“Yes momma.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but God will see us through. Don’t you worry about anything. You hear me?

“Yes momma”

She took a long drag of her cigarette, and thumped the ashes in the little tray beneath the car radio. “If she asks me if I hear her one more time, I’m going to need one of those cigarettes too,” I thought.

Looking out the window it was evident we were almost home; I was more familiar with the things that we zoomed past now.  The freeway looked like a long gray rug beneath the tires of our car.

Cigarette smoke swirled around my head; nauseous I coughed a few times and held my stomach as signals to my mom that the windows needed to be rolled down.

Before my non-verbal requests for fresh air could become verbal, we had found our way onto the streets of our neighborhood and pulled into our driveway.  She gathered the pack of Newports, her purse and silver can. The small brown paper sack that engulfed the can had now become wet from the perspiration of the can. Pain and hurt continued to blanket her face. 

At that very moment, the torch was lit that would be carried for years to come. I’m still holding it after all of these years.

 That day also gave birth to my current ethos; “I’mma get you before you get me.”

Nervous and anxious all at the same time, my mom’s entire body fluttered.  After she handed me the house key to unlock the door, I notice she was shaking hard with a cigarette hanging from her bottom lip and the paper sack enveloped silver can under her arm.