The Mother in the Grave

Burying a Statistic

Episode 01:

The cemetery was always quieter before sunrise. The sun hadn’t quite broken the horizon yet. Issi preferred it that way. The world hadn't started asking questions yet.

The dewy, cool grass brushed against her shoes as she walked toward the polished granite marker. She carried two things: fresh flowers and an untold story.

She knelt beside the headstone.

"You remember how persistent you were?" She smiled.

"Maybe you got that from me."

The smile faded.

"I have a story for you, Kiya."

She rested her hand against the cool granite and paused, as though listening for an answer carried on the morning breeze.

“Most people thought this story started with your disappearance. Others thought it started in a courtroom. They were all wrong.”

The wind shifted through the cemetery, stirring the grass around where she sat.

“Funny how dirt could hold so many things. Memories. Regrets. Secrets. Names. Statistics. Some things were buried by time. Others were buried by people. Most people thought they buried you.

“What they really tried to bury was me. Long before they knew the truth. Long before they knew either of us. Long before they decided what kind of mother I was.

“The story didn't begin with the trial. It began the night before.”

Issi placed the flowers she was carrying in front of the marker as she removed the old ones she had placed just days before. Carefully, she arranged the fresh ones in the molded vases one by one as she continued to reveal the story.

“The night’s exhaustion had finally caught up with me, I guess. That night, the dream returned. I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but my head sank into the couch as the world tilted. That white couch that had absorbed every tear, every restless thought, just held me.

“My bed just looked out of place. Neatly made. Stacked with decorative gray and white pillows as though no one had ever touched it. The TV’s soft glow kept me company when Elias was away, while Micah slept at his father’s, and you remained gone.

“I had the same nightmare a thousand times.”

Issi’s eyes began to water as she stared at each of the engraved letters. She moved over and turned her back against the cold headstone. It felt as though she were leaning on an old friend, as she had done lovingly many times before.

“I am standing barefoot in the wet, cold grass while raindrops cling to me. A shovel is leaning against my leg. The fog around me is too thick, and there is a quiet that presses on my chest.

“A grave sits in front of me.

“Fresh.

“Half-dug.

“The headstone reads:

HERE LIES A MOTHER.

“The wind carries whispers, sharp and clear. Each voice layers over me until they form a circle around me.

“Another single mother who can’t keep her child.

“Should’ve picked better.

“Black women are always angry.

“Ain’t nothing but another statistic.

“My fingers grip the shovel handle as I hastily try to bury the words before me, but my feet sink deeper into the ground as my heart races.

“I look down at the dirt on my shovel.

“I pour it out to start filling the hole, then something beneath me shifts and begins stretching upward.

“I lean down closer and see myself lying there.

“The same tired eyes.

“The same hair matted to my face.

“The same clothing style that was always admired.

“This other version of me stares up at me, eyes wide open.

“Then the whispers turn into shouts.

“Your daughter ran because of you!”

“You should have listened!”

“If she were my daughter, this wouldn’t have happened!”

“You buried yourself long before this!”

“I drop the shovel, and my knees hit the mud. I claw at the earth, trying to pull the other me free, but every handful I throw only piles higher over her chest.

“Soon, I can’t tell which version is being buried and which one is digging.

“The world cracks before me. The ground around me opens and forms a row of mirrors instead of walls. Each reflection shows me something different.

“One version weeping.

“One screaming at an empty room.

“One just staring back, hollow.

“One who yells everything I can’t say.

“One frantically searching for something.

“And one sitting numb to judgment.”

Issi looked up at the sky, reliving the events from those moments.

“The mirrors whisper now. Their voices become mine and multiply.

“Strong Black woman.”

“Too strong.”

“Too loud.”

“Too alone.”

“Then the mirrors begin to fracture, lines running like veins across the glass. My reflection scatters into a hundred pieces, each repeating my name in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.

“Issi.”

“I reach out and touch the broken surfaces, and they shatter even more. Shards start raining down, slicing the light into ribbons.

“When I blink, I’m standing in the middle of a street.

“Red and blue lights flicker against neighboring windows, and sirens wail in the distance.

“Your missing poster is in my hands.

“Your face, Kiya.

“And that smile.

“The paper begins to wilt from my tears.

“Then, out of the shadows, the same voices that whispered to me suddenly have faces.

“Neighbors.

“Coworkers.

“Teachers.

“Caseworkers.

“Cops.

“All pointing at me.”

She closed her eyes against the pain she felt through her own words.

“What were you thinking?”

“Should’ve raised her right.”

“Can’t save every lost cause.”

“You’re the reason she’s gone.”

“Then the poster catches fire in my hands and curls inward. The smoke rises and twists into words that prey on my mind like vultures:

FAILURE.

BROKEN.

BITTER.

ALONE.”

The words lingered long after the fire disappeared.

For a moment, the silence said it all as the breeze carried the scent of damp earth and fresh grass.

She looked back at the granite marker.

"That was one of them."

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"One of the dreams."

She nodded as if she had heard confirmation from somewhere beyond the place where she was sitting.

For months, she had replayed those nights in her head, searching for something she might have missed.

A warning.

A different ending.

The silence settled uncomfortably.

Not empty.

Just incomplete.

She closed her eyes once again, imagining her daughter’s face.

There was so much more she wanted to tell her. Stories she had forgotten to share. Questions she never got to ask. Moments that still lived inside her, waiting for the right words.

But somehow, there were never enough of those.

Never enough words.

Never enough time.

Eventually, she opened her eyes and looked toward the brightening sky. The day was moving on.

Reluctantly, she pushed herself to her feet.

A life was still waiting for her beyond the cemetery gates.

She straightened her daughter’s flowers one last time and picked up the old ones, tearing off a petal before throwing them away.

A small smile found its way onto her face.

"Love you, baby."

Her hand lingered against the cool granite for just a second longer, as though she wasn't quite ready to let go.

Then she turned and walked away.

Behind her, the story remained unfinished.