Mama always liked to cook different types of food every night. She was cool like that. Up until I went to college, we never ate leftovers and we never had the same thing twice a month. She always kept it fresh like that. I went to her house one night after a long day. Mama decided to make tandoori chicken.
It was a cold, rainy night and I only had my soft bowler’s hat to keep me dry. Darn those weather men. They never get it right. I was drenched from my shoulders to my loafers with what Mama called, “God’s tears.” I pulled my car into the driveway and trudged my way to the door. As soon as I walked in, Mama came over and hugged me hello. To her discomfort, I was so wet that it seemed like I just dove into a swimming pool.
She pushed me upstairs with her soft hands and got me a change of clothes; she was helpful like that. I missed her help, most of the time. Other times it felt as if I was being smothered with barbecue sauce. We walked downstairs, it took Mama a bit of time to reach the first landing. Her legs didn't work like they used to.
I assisted her in the kitchen but she was still the queen. She did everything. The kitchen was her palace and I was just a knight in her army. I didn't mind, though. I always got a meal and a few compliments in the process. That night was one of the best ones that I’ve had in awhile. Mama was fun like that.
We sat down at the dining room table- the most used room in her house- besides the kitchen, of course. It was quiet, very quiet. It was like that since my father died. He was always the one to start the conversation. Mama suddenly smiled and I smiled back; that was something we did. We were close like that.
Then, out of nowhere, our gaze was broken, Mama collapsed. Her frail limbs lost their momentum and her fork dropped.
“Mama?” Panic was settling in my body and it wasn't leaving anytime soon. I closed my eyes and sunk into the black hole of anxiety that consumed me every time something terrible happened. Would she make it? Why is this happening? There were numerous questions occupying my brain that I couldn't think straight. My mind was a kaleidoscope and no matter what I did I couldn't bring myself to pull away. Finally all of the beads seemed to merge together and melt into my mother’s dining room. Mama was still laying there with a blank stare painted on her face.
When I finally returned to the real world, I dragged myself to the phone, despite the internal pain I was feeling, and called 911. My brain was still foggy but somehow I managed to tell the paramedics that my mother was unconscious in her dining room. It seemed to be hours before they arrived. I paced around the chestnut colored room but never breaking my stare at Mama. Her green eyes were so soothing. She looked so peaceful, but at the same time filled with fear.  Maybe I was imagining it, maybe she wasn't feeling anything at all. Maybe that’s what I was experiencing. Mama’s cold face was so disheartening. I had to think positive. She’ll be okay. I wasn’t too sure.
The paramedics finally came and put my mother in the ambulance but I was still going in slow motion. I could tell they were asking questions but I couldn't make out a word they were saying. All I heard was the sirens echoing throughout my head. After many miscommunications, they motioned to me to the ambulance. I just looked at Mama and no one else. I wanted to go back to an hour ago when were cooking in her kitchen, when we were setting the table, when I was getting her ice water. We eventually reached the hospital. That was when I really lost it. I don’t remember much, though, it was all a blur.
That was the night I lost my mom. I was in the hospital all night only to wake up to bad news. Not just bad news, the worst news that I could possibly hear. I cried so much that you’d think that I was standing outside in the rain all night. I didn’t even have my mom, a ray of sunlight, to brighten my day. I still think about what would happen if I wasn't there. What would happen if she just layed on her table all night and I would never know.  However, besides my grief, there was another feeling I got when she died. A feeling in which somehow, she was with me, wherever I went. She wasn’t really gone. She was there like that.