I'm Possible: A Story of Survival, a Tuba, and the Small Miracle of a Big Dream by Richard Antoine White

Author:Richard Antoine White [White, Richard Antoine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, music, Individual Composer & Musician, Cultural; Ethnic & Regional, African American & Black
ISBN: 9781250269652
Google: fpwOEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Flatiron Books
Published: 2021-10-05T00:01:59.558523+00:00

18

Crossing Over

“Mom, please pass the potato salad.” Vivian handed the bowl of creamy, yellow potatoes down the Christmas table.

Mama looked at me questioningly. “You mean, Grandma.”

“No, they said I can call her Mom.”

Mama’s face twisted. The whole table got quiet. I looked from Mama to Vivian to Richard. I loved all these people and I didn’t want any of them to hurt.

“You both are my mom,” I said gently.

I clung to my memories of Mama, back when it was just her and me. She would always be my mother. But alcoholism is a disease, and while I’d been waiting for her to get better, I had crossed over into the McClain family. I had to let go. I loved Mama, I always would, but she felt so far away, more like a distant relative than a mom.

After Christmas, months passed before I saw Mama again. In June, I called around until I caught up with her so I could tell her about graduation. “I’m so proud of you, baby,” she said, and that was enough.

But when the phone rang while I was at Aunt Margie’s, I had a strange feeling in my gut. Margie was speaking in hushed tones and then she called me over to the phone. “Ricky, Richard and Vivian need to speak with you.” Why was I always getting bad news at Margie’s house?

I could hear the hurt in Vivian’s voice when she said my name, “Baby Ricky.” She took a deep breath in.

“My mama died.” It wasn’t a question. I’d been waiting for her passing since I had known what death was.

“Uh-huh,” Richard said, “Your mom passed away.”

Vivian moaned: “Lord give me strength.”

It was too late for me to go to the hospital. Mama had been admitted for an asthma attack, but they couldn’t open her airways. She had died trying to breathe.

My head swam. I don’t have a mom. But then I thought of Vivian. I do have a mom, a real mom.

When I got home, Vivian was sitting in the living room rocking back and forth and saying, “Lord, have mercy. Lord, Lord, Lord,” over and over. “Lord give me strength.”

I knelt down beside her chair and put my arm around her. She cried hard into my shoulder.

Everyone apologized to me a lot.

“I’m sorry,” Angie said.

“It’s okay.” I felt like I was comforting her. Somehow, I was not crying. I was not sad. The last fourteen years had prepared me. Little by little, Mama had been slipping away from me. Now, she was gone.

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