Aug 2015
One afternoon he awoke
suddenly from a reverie,
and he sat up, hands
on his knees, cried a plea—
“Please, take me back
to a world without me.”
And me, I looked at him,
didn’t frown, didn't stutter,
held his face, met his eyes,
and replied with a shudder—
“Love, it’s me, it’s your mother."
suddenly from a reverie,
and he sat up, hands
on his knees, cried a plea—
“Please, take me back
to a world without me.”
And me, I looked at him,
didn’t frown, didn't stutter,
held his face, met his eyes,
and replied with a shudder—
“Love, it’s me, it’s your mother."
mothers are wonderful, aren't they? i don't think they ever stop worrying, away or not, dead or alive; that's their job, after all, to love unconditionally.
