Royal blue eyes like the typical damsel in distress. But she’s black. Black like the ash after the fire has ruthlessly burned its way through the stacks and stacks of wood. Dark. Like your favorite piece of Dove Dark Chocolate. Black person with blue eyes. A rarity. She falls somewhere in between 5’6 and 5’7. Maybe not the next model down the runway but certainly a respectable height. Hair is kinky. Curly. All-natural braids. She looks most beautiful when the Sun strikes the right side of her face and bounces off into nothingness. Breathtaking. Her lips are plump. Not too miniature that they blend into her face but the perfect mixture of there and not there. Nose. An imperfection. An exact copy of her mother’s. Ears, small. They are lost in her long locks because she is ashamed that no one can hear the silence that will forever ring through those ears. She is deaf to everything but your mother’s endless scream.

Bue always carrying an umbrella. Sunshine or raining cats or dogs. She was the only black person I knew that feared sunburn. She already has a natural tan what more else is there to change. The umbrella in the rain was not used to shield her from the wrath from up above. It was left at home. She loved the rain. The way it drips drops down her face. It reminded her of the tears she has now run out of. But rain was a new type of tear. A happy tear. Not the one you get when you get into that dream college. College is just vanity. Happy tears is when you find out no your father will not die of prostate cancer or when the water bill is paid and you can finally get Kaylee the Christmas present she always wanted or when your mother finally stops calling. Bue was fun-loving. Happy to be alive every day. Because being alive is never assured. So when you do wake up be happy. She was  naturally happy.

Bue relied on her common sense. Schooling was irrelevant, useless. Internet. Why pay thousands for school when you have the internet at your fingertips, where all the teachers get their information, and the brain God gave you. Common sense. Always the main tool for Bue. It taught her many things like how to properly tell her mom to die, how to run away from home and never look back, how to punch and kick her mother, how to delete her mother’s phone number permanently, how to uninvite her mother from her wedding, how to be a  

Lovely lady overall.

When Bue had been born she knew the umbilical cord connecting her and her now estranged mother had been cut. But what she did not know was that the bond woven into their heart strings would eventually succumb to Father Time. Bue had a healthy relationship with her mother until her father died. Dad was like the stabilizer. Arguments that had gone to Bue and her mother’s throats grabbing hold of the air squeezing tighter and tighter were ended only when her father pushes them away from one another. But only one day after her dad had died of his second bout of tuberculosis, the argument had gone too far. Bue’s mother flung the knife piercing the left ear. But this scar was not a placeholder for the new diamond earrings Bue bought for herself it was instead a reminder that Sheila was not a mom, she was a stranger.. Bue stormed out of the house in a fury and jumped into her white Lexus and drove off. To where? I do not know. To whom? Her father. Why? To cry. For whom? Her mother.

Bue always wondered if her mother’s ghost could fill in the broken pieces of her heart. Maybe her ghost can become a lovable surrogate mother, a role Sheila could not fulfill. Bue wishes she could have talked to her one last time. What she would say? Well there’s two possibilities. I love you and I am sorry and Please Forgive and I love you and I love you and I am sorry and I am sorry and Please Forgive and Please

Forgive. But save this for the “Oops, I broke your expensive China” moment(s). Save it for the“Oops, I might have possibly accidentally hidden my report card for a month” moment. But it best works in the “Oops, I got expelled (again)” moment(s) when your mother’s hand is whistling through the air to strike you against your face. The second possibility is I hate you go die never talk to me again. In her heart Bue wanted the former. But in the moment, heart racing, blood pumping, adrenaline at its height, go die is all that comes out. Oops.

Bue had always wondered what mom she really wanted:

Mom

like a friend

who doubles as a soccer mom

you know the one you brings the goldfish and a water bottle and comforts you

and is the first one to escort you to the nurse’s office

Mom

Like mom

Like I need to talk mom

Like sorry mom

Like I will call you back mom

Like I hate you mom

Like your ruining my life mom

Like get out of my room mom

Like

Breathe.

Like I love you no matter what mom. Like love you back

Like be with me forever mom

Like love.

Like love.

Mom

Like

You read me like a book and

I love and hate you at the same time

Mom

Like my mom

The mom.

Mom.