I never realized how much my mother taught me until she passed away when I was only nine years old. When I was only nine years old, my mother, my best friend, my caregiver, and my role model disappeared from my life in what felt like an instant.My mom taught me practically everything one could dream of knowing as a child. How to craft the perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich, how to tie my shoelaces (albeit that part took me a while to get the hang of), how to braid my hair, all the good things. But she also showed me and my siblings practical things that would do us good much later in life, such as how to maintain a clean home, do laundry, wash dishes, and cook. I remember one time in the first house we lived in back in New Jersey, she sent me downstairs to turn off the fire on our gas stove. I must have only been around six. I stood frozen in front of the blue flame, watching in horror as I slowly reached my hand forward to turn off the stove, my heart beating a thousand times per minute. I never did turn off the stove that day. No, I ended up running to Mom and she comforted me by telling me there was nothing I had to be scared of, her voice more naturally blunt than soft. She had always been frank to some degree. And I think it’s because she wasn’t scared that showed me I didn’t need to be scared either; that things were okay, and they would continue to be.
My mom also home-schooled me and my siblings. While Mom helped my little sister count to ten and learn the letters of the alphabet, my brother and I would slump at the dining room table downstairs and take out our workbooks and sit there for what felt like hours on end, our pencils twirling in our hands as we chatted and talked and doodled in our books, not taking the world around us any seriously. Mom sent me to the living room to focus. Giving us a good education was always a priority of hers. Our school hours always shifted depending on what the day had at hand. Sometimes we’d be done early and go out for a walk or play in the backyard; other days, school would take all evening because the morning had been particularly eventful. Throughout the day, she’d always make sure we were never home too long, despite being home-schooled. While my dad was still working at his old job, she would take us just about everywhere she went—grocery shopping, meeting a friend, hiking. Where she went, we went. What she did, we did. She’d also get us to meet up with other kids and do things out of the house. I remember one time, after we had already moved to Puerto Rico, she brought us to this kids’ museum along with some other families and their kids, and it was a field day! Everything was so bright, so wonderful, and so new. She’d always give us these types of experiences. Perhaps this is where I developed my curiosity, or perhaps I was simply born with it. Either way, she made sure it was always put to use; that we were never left wondering about anything that was in our means to know.
My mom also home-schooled me and my siblings. While Mom helped my little sister count to ten and learn the letters of the alphabet, my brother and I would slump at the dining room table downstairs and take out our workbooks and sit there for what felt like hours on end, our pencils twirling in our hands as we chatted and talked and doodled in our books, not taking the world around us any seriously. Mom sent me to the living room to focus. Giving us a good education was always a priority of hers. Our school hours always shifted depending on what the day had at hand. Sometimes we’d be done early and go out for a walk or play in the backyard; other days, school would take all evening because the morning had been particularly eventful. Throughout the day, she’d always make sure we were never home too long, despite being home-schooled. While my dad was still working at his old job, she would take us just about everywhere she went—grocery shopping, meeting a friend, hiking. Where she went, we went. What she did, we did. She’d also get us to meet up with other kids and do things out of the house. I remember one time, after we had already moved to Puerto Rico, she brought us to this kids’ museum along with some other families and their kids, and it was a field day! Everything was so bright, so wonderful, and so new. She’d always give us these types of experiences. Perhaps this is where I developed my curiosity, or perhaps I was simply born with it. Either way, she made sure it was always put to use; that we were never left wondering about anything that was in our means to know.After my family and I had made one of the biggest changes of our lives (or at least my life), moving to Puerto Rico from New Jersey, life as I knew it did a one-eighty. No longer were there such a thing as snow days; no longer were my old friends a drive away; no longer were there hikes through dense pine forests. Now it was hot summers, new people, palm trees, and water. Lots of water. Let me not forget to mention the two hurricanes that clobbered the island not even two weeks after we arrived—Misses Irma and Maria. But still, my mom made sure my siblings and I knew that there was not only nothing to be afraid of, but that we could get the best out of these changes and unexpected occurrences. When the light was out, we lit the candles. When food was low, we bought what we could and were thankful for any blessing from our neighbors. When the wind was howling like a madman, as if someone were banging on our front door, we simply sat inside by the table and played games, laughing and smiling in tragedy’s face. God was taking care of us, and my mom made sure we knew it. Maybe it’s because of times like these that I learned not to let initial setbacks deter me.
But one day, in April of 2018, my mom started to get sick. My dad was out on a business trip back in the U.S., so it was just me, my younger sister, my older brother, and my mom who wasn’t doing too well. She had taken such care of us, taught us so well, that now was the time to put all that to use and take care of her. I remember squeezing her a fresh, juicy grapefruit and mixing it with honey; serving it to her like it was a gourmet drink, this nature’s medicine. Even still, in that hard time, I wasn’t worried. I trusted that everything would be okay, because up to that point, they always were. That’s just how my life had been—moving, hurricanes, sicknesses and all. Things were okay. But this time it was different. I heard her wheezing from the living room, and my eyes stayed open upon the dark ceiling. When my dad came back home, there was a period of hospital visits and pastors visiting, and he had her declare her healing. Things, however, got worse. It was one Thursday night that I’ll never forget. My dad had just finished reading me and my siblings a book—we always read that book on Thursdays. I walked to my parents’ bedroom and kissed my mom goodnight. For the last time. Later that night, I awoke suddenly when I heard a panting sound coming from the living room. I slowly peeked my head out of my doorway when my dad came by and said in a level voice, “Kids, pack a small bag. The pastor is coming to pick you guys up.” I remember feeling confused and conflicted, but nevertheless, I did what my dad said. I walked with my siblings out of my room and passed my mom on the floor. Our neighbor (who was a doctor) was kneeling next to her and giving her chest compressions. It was a sight I never thought I would see. One that flooded me with terror and made my heart race. Still, I kept silent, my mind replaying the words “everything will be okay” over and over again.Everything wasn’t okay. A couple days later was when my dad told me she wasn’t coming back. It was one of the hardest days of my life. I don’t remember how much I cried that day, as my dad held me and my siblings against him, probably getting soaked in our tears. Yet the funeral was somewhat bittersweet. To a little girl, being surrounded by family and friends was enough compensation for the absolute tragedy that was happening around me. And when I looked into the casket and saw her face—the face of a woman who I no longer recognized as my mother but an empty body whose features were lacking their usual smile, their usual life, which had morphed since coming out of the hospital—a corpse; I didn’t know what to think. I had gotten out all of the tears when I first heard the news. All I had on my young features were dry eyes and a blank expression on my face, even as the people I loved broke down around me.
Looking back at all my life has amounted to since then, I think I can say with confidence that it’s because of her. It’s because of her that I know how to cook and clean. It’s because of her that I know how to hold morals and pursue truth. It’s because of her that I know how to work hard, create infinitely, go after the impossible. There’s this phrase she used to say, “Limits are overrated; just create.” It was her motto to some degree, and I guess somewhere along the way, it became mine.My mother was a charismatic woman. If I were to describe her in one word, it would be jubilant. She was very smart, a problem solver; she was an entrepreneur with her own YouTube channel and business; she was a teacher; she was an artist, great at drawing and painting things from sight; she was a cook, always trying new healthy and delicious recipes; she was a singer and wrote beautiful songs; she was creative, funny, outgoing, adventurous, knew when to be tough, knew when to be soft; knew when to stand up for what she believed, and knew when to hold her peace. Most of all, she was a woman of faith, with a peaceful mind and ears attentive to God.
I had always thought my mom would be the one watching me in the front seat when I went on to become someone in this world, or perhaps she would be right next to me when I would give my husband my vows; or be the best grandma to my children, feeding them Skittles (a jest she would make). But none of those things ever happened. And yet, there’s a bittersweet feeling in my heart when I think that somewhere in heaven, she’s waiting to see her three wonderful children again; that I have to work hard and live out what God has planned for me. I know more than anything that that’s all she would ever want for my life. And though it pains me that I have to go on without her, that there are some things that I will never learn from her own lips, or never feel from her touch, or laugh about in her company; that there are some things that I will never get the chance to do with her, that her very presence was stripped away from my life in mere seconds; that her beautiful laugh will no longer bring joy to my ears, that I may never again here on Earth hear her voice say “I love you”—I take comfort in knowing that those first nine years of my life were full of priceless moments, and that nothing was wasted, because she was always with us, wherever we went, whatever we did.
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And it’s because of that fact that I’m able to face the world with a bold expression, in confidence and knowledge, because of what she brought me up in—the values, beliefs, attitudes, and examples she instilled. It’s because of that fact that when I go on to do great things with my life, I’ll be smiling knowing that though she isn’t by my side, it’s because of her that I made it here. And that even though she isn’t here, she left a legacy that’s unable to be destroyed. And there lives a piece of that legacy in me, and in all whom she influenced.
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I love you, Mom. And thank you for everything.
—Juliette A. Laguerre
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