That was the best way to describe how I felt as I was being escorted by two guards to my mother’s burial at Potter’s Field. It was a place for poor people to be buried. I thanked God that was at least done for my mama and she didn’t have to be cremated. Since she had no other family out here except for me, there was no real church service, though. Which I didn’t care about . . . I probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it. Damn. I had lost my mama. I avoided looking at the open casket and instead kept staring down at my hands. Come to find out, in all the time that she hadn’t been writing me it was because she was really sick, bedridden actually. And all that time I didn’t know. Part of me blamed myself. I figured if I hadn’t been in prison and if she weren’t stressing over me that she would still be here. So many thoughts ran through my head, I wondered if her death could have been prevented. Would she have gotten better medical care if she wasn’t locked away? Did they simply look at her like she was just an inmate?
