A Love Letter To My Matriarchs

The Art Of Knowing Yourself Through Invitation

I remember walking into my grandmother’s house as a child, greeted by the Pine-Sol aroma. She and my grandfather have lived in the same house for as long as I can remember. My brother and I would walk there from school before going home for the evening. We’d come in, drop our bookbags, and take off our shoes. Vacuum imprints still fresh on the carpet. Everything always in place. Everything exactly as it should be.

The vanilla-scented candle that sat on the granite countertop was lit. The flame flickering to remember her mother, and her mother’s mother, too. Inviting their wisdom and protection into the home.

I don’t remember much about my great-grandmother. Just her curly gray hair, her square-framed glasses. She was quiet, or at least I was quiet, so she was good with the silence if I was.

Then here she comes. My grandmother would lightly jog down the steps to greet us, phone up against her ear. Always sharing, always sending love, always connecting. In true Capricorn fashion, she’d mouth, “Hi!” with a smile, then would immediately start preparing us a snack. We’d mouth back, “Hey Mama,” not trying to disturb her conversation. She didn’t stop what she was doing; she just folded us into her world. She’d open her pantry closet, pull out a box of Premium Saltine crackers and Nabisco Easy Cheese. Not because we couldn’t get it ourselves. We could. But it was her kitchen. The world that she created.

And now more than ever, I understand the need to keep something for self. I used to think she was particular. But that was hers. Her particularness makes her, her.

Her basement, full of books, where I’d sneak to peek at an Eric Jerome Dickey or Terry McMillian novel. Going to church every Sunday, singing with the Altos. Getting her nails polished red every salon visit and standing biweekly appointments for her hair. A good cup of coffee that could make or break everything in the morning. And a sip of Baileys before bed. Shopping at Macy’s to pick up one thing, or stopping by the MAC counter for her Chestnut lip liner.

​There’s a mirror in her foyer. I’d watch her as she placed her makeup bag underneath while she touched up her lips before heading out. I’d watch her moisturize her toes before putting on her shoes. She’d wait until the very last minute so the oil didn’t get on her carpet.

Her care for self has always been hers, too. Though my grandmother’s ‘I AM’ is rooted in family and nurturing, she has always been quietly, privately, herself first.

As I gazed at the sketched photograph of my grandparents hanging on the entryway wall, I realized the safety he created gave her room to tend to herself. He is her grounding. Her sure thing. Some afternoons, we’d hear the garage door open, the keys rattling. Then his voice, “What a special day for me!”

Her daughters. Returning her same care right back to her. One night, I watched my mom twist my grandmother’s hair so she didn’t have to worry about it. I watched as her fingers glided between each black and gray strand, serving as little prayers in motion.

I watch my grandmother and wonder what she dreamed of as a little girl. I wonder if her life today exceeds those dreams. One day, I’ll ask her, though I see content that fills her eyes.​

The little anecdotes that my siblings, cousins, and I remember from our childhood had her signature imprinted all over them. Every act of service was, and still is, her love language.

I saw the same things in my mother that I saw in my grandmother. The same standing hair appointment, but this time she’d go full color, highlights, or even braids. The same good cup of coffee, but this time with Amaretto cream. The same MAC lip liner, but this time with Explicit lip gloss.

My mom got off work a little later in the evening. She’d come home, open the door, and scream, “Babbbiieeeesssss” like Beyonce in Deja Vu! She’d come in extroverted, and my introverted self would brace for impact. She didn’t come home depleted, or maybe she did. But one thing for sure, her family energizes her, and we can tell. Her energy and excitement are her love language.

I watched my mom relieve the day from her shoulders, leaving her work bag and coat at the door. She was ready for pleasure, movement. A workout. Dinner without our phones. Light conversation to see how everyone’s day went. She didn’t get too wrapped up in our homework. If we needed help, she knew we’d ask. She’d look forward to her Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream or peanut butter crackers. And the highlight of the evening was the line-up of “good TV” on UPN that awaited: The Hugleys, One on One, All of Us, and Girlfriends.

Her ‘I Am’ was never: I am an employee of this company. Because my momma would quit a job if she lacked fulfillment, okay? Her ‘I Am’ is rooted in family as well, but I watched her make fulfillment her foundation.​

I watched my mom rearrange her life to live in that fulfillment. She’d go to work late if needed to take her children to school, and her managers just adapted. I watched her, mid-50s, walk away from her career to start over. Trading her closet full of New York & Company blouses and Nine West pumps for scrubs. Fulfilling a curiosity she had back in her 20s, before being a wife. Before being a mom.

She was always hers, too.

They didn’t have the language, but they did have the intention.

It makes me think about the things that I hold close. What are the little pieces of me that make me, me? What are the little nooks in my day that make me pause for a second and live in my own world?

I didn’t receive a blueprint, and neither did they, but I damn sure received an invitation.

Their lives teach me I can be of service, but also save some for myself. They teach me to live freely. To have the audacity to take up space and express myself in a way that feels good to me.

And now, I too keep my lip liner and gloss in my bag, but this time with blush. My bookshelves overflow with fiction, nonfiction, and feminist theory, but this time I am the author. And every morning I make a warm cup, but this time of coffee or tea, depending on the mood, not for the energy, but for the way it feels.

Who am I? Well, I am theirs. And, they are mine. They dreamed me. I am grateful that both my grandmother and mother get to watch me live my ‘I AM’ today.

I light the same white, vanilla-scented candle in my home to invite the wisdom and protection of their mother’s mother, too. Though I may not remember, I can feel.

I know them, and they know me.

my mom, my grandmother, and me ‘93