It was a Saturday. We were planning to go to Nashville that day to see her. She’d been hospitalized there for several days and we’d planned for me to finish up the school week and then go see her on Saturday. I had just finished getting ready when my sister and brother-in-law arrived at the house. We were supposed to ride to the hospital together.

But one look at my sister’s bloodshot eyes and I knew that it was too late.

The date was March 26, 1994. It was the day my mother passed away.

In the 20 years since her passing, I’ve written quite a bit about my mother’s impact on my life. I’ve written about her compassionate spirit that compelled her to a 20-year career teaching inner-city students. I wrote about my embarrassment when, as a 15-year-old, a church member told me I looked just like her