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Manhattan, New York May 7 4:03 A.M. Beyonce Giselle Knowles
Serenity. I never yearned for anything more. For the bulk of my life, I scoured for it. I couldn't find it in my bank account. Or through various possessions, estates, and cars. Silks, fabrics, and fibers of every color and textile. The world at my touch before being of the legal age to consume alcohol, yet, I couldn't grasp the feeling. I fought that reality sun up and down—was frustrated even. I couldn't buy my way out of it. I pursued all types of avenues. Yet, I kept meeting the same obstruction. My money could triple around the globe, yet this void stood prevalent.
Then I found it.
Or she possibly found me. She was unexpected, a surprise in my life, coming into it during my mother's transition. I like to think that as Mama left Gelo and me, she provided Onika as her final offering. Although I never found religion a routine practice, I still descended to my knees every dusk to thank her for her parting contribution.
Upon the news of her condition worsening, it was as if my head was slowly being screwed off my shoulders, and Mama couldn't do anything but watch me endure internal torment until she passed on.
She'd only been diagnosed with high blood pressure and shortly thereafter, diabetes. Upon her first hospitalization, they said they be able to control it, but her physical health took a turn in the matter of months.
Soon, after she was released, she suffered a stroke that landed her right back in the infirmary.
And another within the next three months.
Non-verbal was she in her last days, her only method of communication being the minute blinks of her eyelids or slight squeezes from her hand. No one championed my joy as much as she did, and she wouldn't let her clear physical limitations prevent her from easing her child's troubles.
I'm almost certain she tampered with some form of Gris-Gris, but she had to opt for sending someone rather than some charm or amulet to protect me. That's what I think. That's what I liked to think.
She knew I'd need someone to put me back together. That's what I liked to think.
And death usually welcomed growth—commonly lush green meadows chocked with roses, lilacs, and peonies of all hues. Instead, it delivered disassociation. We held hands in her last moments, and I'll never forget the feeling of her palm running glacial.
The heart monitor went flat, as did my mother, and before that quiet Houston morning, I'd never seen life and death happen in the same place simultaneously. Along with the peril of my matriarch, Beyonce died with her.
