Let me start by unconfusing you: I had two mamas. Laverne, the one who raised me, my mother’s baby sister. And the mama who died two weeks ago, Lucille, my real mama. My most recent blog “Before Mama Died, After Mama Died,” was about Laverne. Lucille, her big sister, died a few days after I posted the blog. I know. Life fucking sucks sometimes, right? Anyway, life has been merciful since Lucille passed away. Practically every night, a different girlfriend has taken me out. When they call and ask how can they help me, I’m ready for them. “Take me out. Let’s go eat,” or “let’s hit a club.” And although some might argue that at fifty one I’m a bit too old to be pulling up to the bar, it’s been so good to be away from my thoughts and my mama mourning. So we go. Being with Tami and Maria, Sonya and Angela, Subrenia and Brenda, has been one big weeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Like being on a rollercoaster that doesn’t let us off until we say we’ve had enough. Sounds amazing. And it is, except for one little creeping thing: every couple of minutes, like an old magnet that still sticks to the refrigerator, my thoughts careen back to “Mama is in an urn.” “Yes, I’ll have a half of a half of a glass of sangria (never have been able to hold my liquor). Oh, that’s right, Mama is in an urn. “Girl, this cheddar burger is the business. My mama is now ashes. “Aren’t we having fun?” (I’ll never see Mama again) And on and on and on it goes. A song not just snagged in my brain, but pounded on my heart. I’ve driven this highway before so I know it will go on like this. I also know the severity and frequency of those thoughts will dissipate over time. I know this but the Mama reality jolts still jab me. It’s the nature of loss. The shape of my second time on this same road. No mama at the rest stops.