Center

Karl-Anthony Towns, center for the Minnesota Timberwolves, experienced unfathomable loss 
in a span of months. His mother, Jacqueline Cruz-Towns, died from complications caused by
COVID-19 on April 13th, 2020. Subsequently that year, Towns’ family lost six more loved ones 
to the disease. 

In a December 2020 post-game interview, Towns is thoughtful and unguarded, as though his
insides are obsidian. Speaking of himself in the past tense, he says, that Karl died on April 13th.
He’s never coming back. I don’t remember that man. I don’t know that man.

I’m volcanic glass when I say, I’ll never be the same. None of us will be the same. We no longer exist.
Our mothers leave us obsidian we’ll need to lean into a microphone without her. I didn’t
understand mother-shaped chasms until July carved mine. 

That woman meant the world to me. More than y’all will ever know and write...It’s such a different pain
than even y’all recognize, Towns says to unseen reporters. 

My mom told a story about my birth. The doctor handed my dad scissors to cut the umbilical
cord. My dad hesitated, paled, shook his head and handed the scissors back. Later, my mom
asked my dad if he’d been squeamish about the blood. No. He couldn’t sever the line that tied her
life to mine. He couldn’t bear the weight of it. 

A gold heart on a chain rests against Towns’ chest throughout The Toughest Year of My Life, the
documentary he created to honor his mother. The loss of her is something that’s not describable.
The weight disappears with her. 

Though her body was unrecognizable in a coma, Towns says of his mother, I could feel her energy. 
It’s something a mother--a mother and a child connection that just can never be misplaced. We speak
telepathically. The doctors, they didn’t feel it, but I felt it.

After an ambling June day in 2018, I went into active labor when I lay down to nap. The on-call
doctor at my OBGYN’s office said, You’re fine. Wait an hour and call back. Immediately after I hung
up, my mom called. She heard my voice. Go now, honey. This baby is coming. My husband drove us
the 10 minutes to the hospital. My water broke as I entered the triage room. 

I don’t even recognize most of my other games and years I’ve played and how I felt those days.

I recall how it felt to be a person with a mother, but I no longer recognize that person as myself. I
lost her like we lose days, each moment as it passes. 

To say it’s been day-by-day is probably an understatement. I think it’s been more moment by moment.

We move through moments. We begin to heal as we can and must, but we’ll never be the same.

For months after my mom died, friends tell me, you’re made of strong stuff. Obsidian is volcanic
glass formed when lava cools rapidly with minimal crystal growth. Obsidian is brittle and can’t be
carved, but when chipped can be sharper than surgical steel. Obsidian is from my mom.
Sometimes because she gave it from what was best in her. Sometimes because I sourced a blade
to protect myself from what was worst in her. 

At the press conference, when asked by a reporter how he got through the game, Towns takes a
long pause, holds space, shakes his head softly as he considers how best to state what no one can understand exactly but himself. When you, um, being honest, when you go through what I’ve been
through, you just find a different source of strength. I don’t know how to explain it...

The Towns family celebrates what should’ve been Jacqueline’s 59th birthday, unfurling red and gold and green confetti against an unapologetically blue sky. 

The same July sky my mom died beneath a week later. 

DANIKA STEGEMAN LeMAY is a Minneapolis poet whose work has appeared in 32 Poems, Afternoon Visitor, CutBank Literary Journal, Forklift, OH, Harpy Hybrid Review, Leavings, and Word for/ Word, among other places. Her video poem, “Then Betelgeuse Reappears” was an official selection for the 2021 Midwest Video Poetry Festival. Danika’s debut collection of poems, Pilot, is available from Spork Press. Her website is danikastegemanlemay.com.