Love the Way You Lie

7/12

From all the stories I heard them tell me when I was younger, I thought we had so many more years to go as a family. A whole. Now I'm not sure anymore.

Well, let me start from the beginning.

I'm not sure how accurate this story is, considering the both my mother and father tell a slightly different version. All the main events are pretty much the same.

Forgive me, my memory is a little blurry this morning. After all, today is the day I attend a funeral.

My parents met in 1980 something or other. My dad says he met mom in 1986, in their junior year of the same high school I'm attending, called Monte-View. From the moment he saw my mom, he was instantly attracted to her.
My mom lived Boston, Massachusetts most her life with her older sister. She moved when she was 15, like me, to this humbug little town to live with her mom (who I call Grinna) after many years because Grinna had her at young age and her house wasn't exactly perfect.

The social services (or "homewreckers," as my mother would call them) took her away because Poppy (my grandfather) was drunk and abusive. Luckily, he died and that's why she moved back. I don't believe my mother ever forgave Grinna for abandoning her for all those years while she stayed in that abusive relationship. She said she did, though. That was because she wanted me to be better than her one day. She'd always told me that. I didn't understand then and right now I still don't quite get it.

Anyway, this is how my mom depicted my father on her first day at Monte-View. She didn't understand why the boy sitting in the back of the class that looked like he was peeled off of a metal band poster was staring at her. Then again everyone looked like that at Monte-View, even the girls and teachers alike.

Maybe it was because she was behind a decade in the fashion. That's was just what she liked--all natural. "No pink and blue overshadow came to her pretty face," dad had said before when retelling the story. Momma's natural afro hair in plaits all over her head. "Tamra's bell-bottoms fanned the entire classroom," daddy would add.

"I wore hot pants thank you very much, Brenall," Momma protested.

And there would be friendly loving bickering going back and forth as they told their high school sweetheart tale. My mom would say when they attended Monte-View the carpet was blue and the lockers green but dad would swear up and down that the lockers were blue and the carpet was green.

Anyway, we have to fastforward though their faded memories. Senior year, Momma was 18 and Daddy was 19, and they got married the summer of 1987. My Grinna was delighted at the marriage. I do believe daddy's mother was sort of. Not so much his father and grandparents. The racial barrier was still prevalent here in America at that time and still today. I feel it personally sometimes because I'm biracial. "His grandparents rolled over almost having heart attacks when he found out he was married to me. He's great-grands were probably turning over in their caskets."

Fastforwarding some more--after being married for 6 years now in 1993--everyone was wondering why they had yet to produce children. They were doing good. My mom worked nights at the hospital, and during the day my dad worked at the garage fixing cars, trucks, boats, and motorcycles for a living. Although, he was well known in the community of our tiny town as a good Samaritan, the local handy man. If someone needed a plumber, they called Brendall Jensen. Need your house re-carpeted, roof retitled, gutters cleaned or a brand new driveway? My daddy was your man. Hence why our house is one of the most beautiful in town. Mom's gardening skills aided with that as well. At only 2,000 square feet my dad basically built this from the ground up. It was a fixer-upper when they purchased it in '87-- probably about to collapse at the time. A challenge my daddy was willing to accept.

"I didn't believe he could do it. We stayed at my mother's house while he worked on hours for a year and on our first anniversary he took me inside. He wouldn't let me in before because he wanted it to be a surprise. And it was, darling, it was. This very four bedroom house we're in now was built by your father. He only had time to fix up three rooms, the living room, one bed room and the kitchen but he just had to show me."

He was hard worker he kept a job while building the house. Momma and Dad were doing good, better than most I suppose but no children. Throughout the course of six years, oh, they tried--but no such luck. The doctors said my mom was sterile or something was wrong with her works where she couldn't reproduce but that never stopped them and four more years later, nine years after marriage I was brought in this world. "6 pounds, 8 ounces, July 13th, 1996 at 4:28 a.m.," my dad proudly recited as I was given the name Delaney Sophia Jensen.

Let's fastforward, shall we? I can't remember how old I was when I noticed mom's hair falling out. And one afternoon my dad nearly in tears as he got his clippers and shaved off all mommas long natural hair.

"Momma is really sick right now" my dad told me as he tucked me in bed. I asked the same questions every single night.

"Daddy when will momma get better?"

It started out as "Soon, DeeBug" DeeBug was my nickname for me from my dad. As I got older, he dropped the bug part, and it was just Dee. Then as the months went on momma was still sick. And every single night I'd ask the samething when daddy tucked me in.

"I'm not sure when," he had started to say.

Months turn in to years.

I asked, "Will she ever get better?"

"I hope so, Dee."

"What is wrong with her?"

"She has cancer."

"What's that?"

The years went on. I didn't think things would get better. It did though. Mom got better.

I had the life my few friends at school wish they had. High middle class, both parents together, only child. I really didn't see what was so special about it. On weekends I'd visit Grinna at the nursing home. I was 12 when she passed.

That was three years ago. I try not to remember it, but I do have a few of her belongings in my room. I recall crying so much--but my mother and aunt didn't shed a tear at her funeral.

Fastforward three months prior to present day. The cancer my mother had seemingly grew out of had returned. She was in remission for so long. This time it was a lot worse. The doctor gave her six months to live. They were wrong...

Today, on July 11th--two days before my 16th birthday--I have to bury my own mother.