Lemon Meringue Pie: How I Came to See the Fullness of My Ummi

In its most natural state, my hair draws up into an Afro that crowns my head. This is also how my mother’s hair sits. It’s how it’s always been for her. So, when I see my Afro, I see my mother.

I don’t see her as she is now, though. I see her younger, maybe forty- something still slender in some places and voluptuous in others with her Afro perfectly picked out under a hairnet.

I see her in a leotard that forms a cup just under her breast and pinches at her forearms. She is never without a long sweeping skirt that kisses the tops of her feet. My mother has always been a modest woman. Her conversion to Islam solidified this modesty.

I could never unsee my mother because that would mean unseeing myself as well. Even as a child I was just like my mother. I was understandably removed from my father’s nonsense while simultaneously entrapped by it. My mother and I are lovers who love through service to others. Her goal was to make our home a sanctuary; heaven on Earth, if you will.

Ummi and mommy are what I call her.

My Ummi rose before the sun everyday. This was her way to stay connected to self and spirit. It was also the quietest time of the day for a mother of six and wife of a sociopath.