Sunken heels, sneezing mud, and Black bodies surrounding a corpse are all I saw in Washington Cemetery located in Brooklyn not too far from where I live in Bedstuy. I inhaled leftover rain droplets and a mixture of musky cologne and perfume. It slowly filled my nose as I came closer. Suddenly I heard the voice of Pastor Coy, an overweight preacher who sweated a considerable amount to fill every decrepit woman's fantasy except for his wife.

"A woman that migrated to Brooklyn from Trinidad in hopes of achieving the American dream. Her name is Bessie, a strong god-fearing woman that lights up any room she is in has now transitioned to a higher place. The songs she sang at church have ended, but the melody still lingers on. Can I get an Amen?" Pastor Coy said with much throaty speech.

"Amen," I said in a low vibration.

"Now, everyone, get ready to put your flowers on her casket and say your final goodbyes," he

said.

I waited until everyone finished and approached her casket, slowly saying, "Bye! Grandma, I will miss you. I know you will protect me while I go on this journey called life. Goodbye!"

"Now time to lay her to rest." Pastor Coy said to his workers.

In an escape to not attend repast with my "perfect" mother and condescending family, I speed-walked to the exit deciphering if I wanted to take the bus or a taxi back home. I didn’t expect much from my family but a ride back home would be the least they can do. The whistling wind smacked me across my face while the leaves began to yell, I could tell it was going to come down storming soon. But, the noise of the wind was no match for the harsh sounds of my grandmother's casket being lowered behind me.

I finally made up my mind and decided to get a taxi on my phone. While typing my address in the drop-off location on the app all I could think about was my grandmother, all the delicious, curried foods she would make, taking care of me since I was 16, and the multiple family fete’s we would go to faithfully.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" I said, crying while my taxi started to roll up.

As soon as my hand touch the car handle the rain started to gush down. I tried to gather my cloudy vision filled with tears while in the back seat. The driver continued to look in the front mirror and I could tell he wanted to say something but he continued to drive looking straight forward until he arrived. I finally made it to my grandmother's townhouse I had lived in with her for years. It was in Bedstuy, right next to Atlantic Avenue one of the busiest streets in Brooklyn. The stairs matching my lipstick were a deep red—the stone railing was white with a matching steel gate before entering the front door. Before I opened the door, I grabbed the overflowing mail and stumbled my way into the walkway.

"Ouch," I yelled.

I forgot that I had left cardboard boxes from online orders all throughout the hallway.

But not only that, the house was a complete mess. This was the first time I went out to do something in almost a week. There were smelly socks and underwear in the kitchen, food left on plates in the sink covered in mold. Once I made it to the living room, I moved an old pizza box from the old ornate couch and dusted off the dried marinara sauce.

"My grandmother would kill me if she knew I spilled sauce on this couch," I said to myself.

I flopped down on a firm cushion putting the mail beside me and resting my oily long black hair on the back of the couch. It was hushed and eerie in this three-story house. You could hear a spider walking.

I said to myself while tears traveled down my cheeks, "I can't believe this shit, one of the happiest moments of my life graduating with my master's in architecture, and you just fucking have a heart attack the day after?"

In addition to this tragic situation, I was offered an entry-level job in Atlanta thanks to finishing an internship in my last semester at Columbia University. If bittersweet could be seen, it would be me smiling with tears running down my cheeks with an image of my grandmother looking down on me in heaven. After snapping out this grief-filled emotion, I opened the mail with my name on it, and it read:

"LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS

I, Bessie Khan, of legal age, widowed a citizen of The United States of America and currently a resident of Brooklyn, New York with sound and disposing mind and memory, and without having been forced, intimidated, or unduly influenced by anybody, have hereby voluntarily executed, and proclaimed this instrument, as my Last Will and Testament, in English, a language I speak and write with and of which I am well conversant:

1. That should I finally rest in eternal peace, it is my wish and desire that internment, vigil, and burial be made in accordance with the customs and traditions of the Church.

2. That I am the owner of the following properties: A townhouse on 33 Marconi Place and over 90,000 in savings.

3. That should the Lord Almighty finally summon this soul from its earthly abode, it is my wish and desire to bequeath, grant, and devise my properties above-mentioned, as follows:

a) To my beloved granddaughter Cynthia Inga Khan, I hereby bequeath the properties listed all to you,"

"Oh my gosh!" I gasped.

This would mean financial freedom, a break in generational family curses more money in city taxes.

"I do not know if I should take this money," I said with disbelief.

Chapter 2. “You can get with this or that”

In hopes of distracting myself from all that was going on now, I made my way to my almost empty refrigerator. At this moment, I wished I had packed a plate at the repast to take back home with me, but I didn't want to give my mother, Tanya, the opportunity to provide me with a speech about how she was always there for me and never did anything wrong. The more I thought of her, the more my head started to hurt, and my stomach growled. I opened my fridge, disappointed that I didn't have much to choose from. I had the option to warm up leftover Dhalpuri Roti with channa that my grandmother made. I remember coming back from school smelling the house filled with garlic and curry, knowing that my grandmother Bessie was cooking her signature dish. This was the true definition of comfort food and always made me happy. I touched the container, knowing if I ate this food, it would be the last meal I ate by her. So, I pushed the bowl towards the back of the fridge.

Telling myself in a low tone, "I'll just save this for another day,"

Then I started to scan the fridge for something else, and I spotted the salt and vinegar chips rolled up in the corner so it wouldn't become stale. My mother had given this to me the day I graduated, I guess as a gift.

"I'm definitely not eating this crap. Tanya only ate this junk when complacent about something going on in her life,"

I could feel anger in my throat just looking at the chips, so I threw them in the trash can. I tried to close the lid, but the trash was overflowing, so I took out the garbage bag, tied it, and placed it on the curb for the garbage people to pick up the next day. Walking back to the fridge a tad bit out of breath, my eyes looked directly to a charcuterie cheese and meat board. I bought this platter a couple of days ago at the local grocery store. It was a variety of different cheeses and deli meat. It cost me around forty dollars. Overly priced, but this board was organic and would last me at least a week.

"Maybe I want to eat this, but now I kind of want the Dhalpuri and channa," I said to myself indecisively.

Even though I thought I would eat the cheese now, I wanted to eat my grandmother's food.

Chapter 3. “I Decided”

For some reason, I couldn't choose what to eat. Out of frustration, I slammed the fridge door, and the cereal boxes started to shake, and then a glass container filled with flour shattered on the floor.

"I'll pick it up another day," I said, not caring if I stepped on the glass later on.

I sat back on the couch with my head hurting even more. I started to massage the temple of my head with my eyes closed and tears falling down my face. I knew my makeup was a mess, but I didn't care.

"Is this what Demeter felt when Persephone was kidnapped? Ugh! Why am I even thinking about that Greek literature elective class I had to take?" I said in a manic way.

"Pull it together! Am I going to have to get something to eat? This headache is getting worst. What would my grandmother want me to eat? What do I really want to eat?" I said to myself.

I slowly walked towards the fridge, walking around the glass carefully to not cut myself. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the charcuterie board placed it on the dining room table. I opened the door to the China cabinet where my grandmother kept her expensive plates.

I took one plate sneakily as if she was going to dart out and tell me, "Ti wat yuh doin?"

I placed the cheese and deli slices on the plate nicely. Then placed proceeded to make my way back to the couch and eat.

"This is so good. Such a great decision," I said to myself, smiling.

My headache slowly started to go away, and I felt so much better. After I finished eating, I not only cleaned up the broken glass but the entire living and dining room. Throwing away amazon boxes, pizza boxes, and old paper plates with moldy food on them. After cleaning, I sat back on my couch and opened my laptop to look for Atlanta apartments.

"This high rise in midtown looks good," I said to myself, confident.

I was suddenly ready to take the money my grandmother gave me and the job opportunity in Atlanta. I decided to leave all my hurt and pain here in Brooklyn and move on. This was an opportunity to break generational cures and make something out of myself. I know my grandmother would want this for me.

Malik Brezin-Reed’s story “On My Own” is the winner of the Black History Month’s Big Read Contest in Fiction.