Years ago, I stood on the stairs at B. Smith’s Restaurant waiting to accept an award from NYABJ for my contributions to the field of journalism. I suspected it had a lot to do with the publication of my third book, which was my first non-fiction title about single black women.

I was nervous as I waited for my name to be called. But, I settled down as I looked at the face of my mother and friends like Kemberly Richardson, Cat McKenzie and others. I stepped forward and I spoke from the heart and not a prepared speech. I was relieved when people laughed and applauded.

As I slinked down the stairs, back into anonymity, I heard a voice in the distant say, “good job.” It was B. Smith. She wasn’t alone. The great Cicely Tyson also told me she enjoyed the authenticity of my speech. I was flabbergasted. I was honored by their words. But, the best moment was hearing how proud my mother was of me.

This memory came to me today as I heard of Ms. Smith’s passing. She was always gracious, welcoming to the community and taught me how to fold fitted sheets. She is also part of one of my favorite memories with my mother.

My mother has faced her own health battles lately but she walked out of the hospital today after nearly a month. She’s got a long road ahead of her. But at least I have a chance to make more memories with her. My heart aches thinking that Smith’s family will not.

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