A memoir exploring the dynamics of mental illness, suicide, hope and recovery.
Separation
I possess a vivid image in my mind of Usman lounging in an enormous white wooden gazebo. He is perched on a large elevated chair. The chair is ornate and appears to be constructed of mahogany wood. It has carvings of vines and leaves in gold inlay on its surface. His legs do not completely reach the floor and they are dangling back and forth. Ivory voile curtains are draped within the inside of the gazebo. They flutter slightly as if possessed by a slight breeze.
It is day and tremendously bright with tinges of yellow and orange on the horizon. The faint presence of a white round moon is pressed flush up against the blueness of the sky. The image appears washed out like a painting done with water colors.
Usman proceeds to carefully ease his body from the chair until his feet touch the floor. He descends the three steps from the gazebo to the ground where I am positioned a short distance away. He looks at me ands he is smiling wide. His pink lips pressed snug against his teeth. They are like white corn nuggets in a neat row.
He is wearing a loose fitting white linen top that is partially unbuttoned at the top. His pants consist of the same fabric and are open wide at the bottom of the legs. His feet are bare. His chest and ankles carry a profusion of fine hair. It is not the body of my 20 year old Usman but that of a grown man. He speaks to me. He calls me “Mama”.
“Mama, I am exquisitely content.” He says. My eyes are stinging and are wet but I nod my head up and down slowly in acquiescence.
“I know baby.” I reply
“Thank you for understanding Mama”. He tells me.
“I love you Usman.” I express myself with urgency this time. My arms are stretched out wide. It is a final desperate gesture indicating I wish to embrace him but he remains planted where he is standing. It is not time.
“I know Mama, I love you too.” He is still smiling. Usman’s image begins to dissipate until he too appears washed out like the yellow and blue sky. And then he is gone.
Season of the Nightingale—a memoir 