Every Son Should See His Mother, Once
EVERY SON SHOULD SEE THEIR MOTHER ONCE
© Frank Westcott, 2012 All rights reserved. Written January 2012.
It was twenty years ago you passed.
I still feel badly, for the time I was late for that lunch we were to have in your chronic care home. I thought it wouldnít matter. I didnít know you ate at a specific time. And were stuck to routine. I thought we could just go down to the cafeteria when I got there, and eat.
It broke my heart seeing you crying by the cafeteria doorís elevator, waiting to take you back up. You looked so frail. Beaten by life. Cancer. Arthritis. Your heart giving out. And more. I thought you were just having one of your crying jags.
I didnít know it was because you were afraid I wasnít coming.
I am sorry. It was my fault. It still is.
We did get to eat. They let us. Even though it wasnít your time. In the cafeteria.
I remember your eyes. Later. When I was leaving. Pausing at the door to your room. Seeing you in your bed. Your eyes were so blue. Alive. As if fuelled by some other worldly fluorescent magic. As if they were not your eyes. Or you. But another source outside you. Or strangely inside you.
Iíll never forget how your eyes looked in that moment. My moment of leaving. It seemed as if you had suddenly left, too. Your body. This life. Your essence. In that moment. As if you died then. Even though. You lived. For awhile. After. It seemed as if you died then. I still think that.
I saw you once more. Well, twice, when you were in the coffin. Counting that. I got the call on the Tuesday that you had passed. I donít like Tuesdays now.
[...If inclined... click on attachment thingy to read the whole story. Wouldn't fit in its entirety :) ]
|All times are GMT -7. The time now is 06:37 AM.|
Powered by: vBulletin Version 3.0.6
Copyright ©2000 - 2014, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.