Soon after, Momma told me that Brenda was in the hospital with lupus. I did some reading and discovered that lupus causes the body's immune system to attack itself. Black women with lupus die three times more often than white women. Damn it. Brenda. I didn't want her to die. Back home, I told Momma what I'd read. She nodded the whole while, as if already resigned to losing her child again.
Death arrived swiftly. Two months later, Brenda was gone. Momma had lost her first child, then gotten her back only to lose her again. I was surprised at the hole it ripped in my life. Momma seemed exhausted. Every sentence she uttered was followed by a deep sigh; the only expression she could muster, a blank stare.
Walking into Momma's kitchen soon after, I noticed a picture on the corkboard.
"Hey," I called out. "This is Brenda!"
Momma got out of her La-Z-Boy and stood by my side. "I put it up after she died," she said.
"It's nice."
"Yeah, she looks pretty." Together we admired the obituary with Brenda's sweet face. "You know she loved you, don't you?"
