I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
John Amos, best known as the father on “Good Times” and a star of “Roots,” has passed away at the age of 84.
John Amos, the talented television actor recognized for his performances in The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Good Times, The West Wing, and Roots, has passed away at the age of 84.
His family shared that Amos died of natural causes in his Los Angeles home on August 21, but the announcement was only made public today.
“With deep sadness, I announce that my father has transitioned,” his son, Kelly Christopher Amos, said in a statement to Deadline. “He was a man with an incredibly kind heart and a golden spirit… loved by people everywhere. Many fans regarded him as their TV father.”
Born on December 27, 1939, in Newark, New Jersey, Amos initially pursued a career in football, playing in the Continental Football League and the Atlantic Coast Football League. He was signed by the Denver Broncos in 1964 but was released before the season due to an injury.
His acting career, however, proved more successful. He gained recognition as weatherman Gordy Howard on the popular sitcom The Mary Tyler Moore Show, a role he held from 1970 to 1973.
Amos is best remembered for his portrayal of James Evans, the father in the classic sitcom Good Times. At just 34 years old when he was cast, he convincingly depicted a hardworking father of three living in a low-income housing project.
The show was lauded for its exploration of significant issues like poverty and racism. However, as the series progressed, Amos had disagreements with the writers and producers regarding the portrayal of Black families and the show’s shift toward broader comedic themes. After season 3, he was let go, and his character met his end in a car accident.
Shortly thereafter, Amos took on another defining role as the adult Kunta Kinte in the groundbreaking miniseries Roots, for which he received an Emmy nomination.
He is also known for his role as Admiral Percy Fitzwallace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, in the political drama The West Wing. Additionally, he had recurring roles in Two and a Half Men and The Ranch.
Among his notable film credits are Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, Die Hard 2, Coming to America, and its sequel.
“He led a fulfilling life, and his legacy will endure through his remarkable contributions to television and film,” his son expressed in the statement. “My father cherished his work as an actor throughout his life.”
“He was my father, my closest friend, and my hero. I appreciate your prayers and support during this difficult time.”
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