*Two weeks ago, my beloved aunt passed away, and on Friday I attended her funeral, the first virtual service I’ve ever experienced. It was surreal and awkward, to say the least, being so far from family, grieving together in this season of COVID-19 pandemic. But the night ended they way she would have wanted it- laughter, smiles, and the love of brothers, sisters, cousins, family mingled together, even if only through the livest Zoom party ever.
For Mother’s Day I want to honor my Auntie’s memory with something I wrote the day after her transition but had not been ready to share.
4/26/2020
Within the Bantu practices of community child-rearing it is said that there is no concept of aunts and uncles, only “other” mothers and “other” fathers-all called by the same title, working together to raise children raised with love and knowledge of culture traditions and norms. This has always been my experience of family and how I am raising my son. My auntie has gone to the realm of the ancestors now and I will miss her physical presence more than words can express. Her children are my sisters and brother so we will walk through this together.(there are MANY of us cousin-siblings, in fact).
Auntie Nita- like all of my aunties, my mama, and my grandmamas- was a woman of regal confidence and love. She was always firm, but never sharp… a safe haven and listening ear for so many. She cared deeply and especially enjoyed children who despite her no-nonsense demeanor could never get enough of her. We flocked to her like bees to honey and felt secure in her company. She would tell you the truth, straight, but without judgment, and then move on to the next thing with ease. She knew art of self-care before it was ever a thing and nurtured herself with good books, music, the coziest spot on the couch, a glass of wine and whatever else she needed at the moment. And she could rule the world from the one spot in the living room on the left side of her couch, close to the kitchen.
I remember sleepovers when she lived on Victoria Street and her and the grown-ups playing Keith Sweat’s new album in the front room while Shannon and me played in the back. I remember bonding with her as pre-teen over a shared love of books and reading, as I was in awe of her ability to speed -read and devour novels of 300-500 pages in a single day. She would brag to me about the newest adult fiction she had gotten from the library and then pass the book onto my mom or me once she was finished. I am grateful that I was able to write and share with her my book about black women’s fiction and see the pride in her eyes as she celebrated my own publication. I remember her teaching us how to make banana pudding one day and watching her tile her own kitchen floor with my Aunt Joyce, the next.
I have always known that the women in my family are extraordinary, powerful, divine, and magical. I praise God on high that this was life and family I was born into. I shout unto the heavens with gratitude for the eldest sister of six who cleared the way from the very beginning and will now clear the way for us from the realm of the spirit. To say that this is hard, painful, and heartbreaking would be an understatement. And yet we have everything we need to heal, to be made whole and to rejoice in the gifts we were given through the life of Anita Bolden Adams. I hold the hearts of my grandmother, my cousins, my mother and my aunts in sacred prayer and an unbreakable love. We are family and we are well.
Flowers that Bloom at Night 
So beautifully remembered and related. Thank you for sharing ❤
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