prose from momma’s baby boy

I don’t know why things happen the way they do. I don’t know why good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good.
I don’t know why we get sick or pass away. I don’t know why it rains on days when we need the sun most, and I’m not sure why our plans fall through.

Life on life’s terms does not come with a play list, and at no point is anyone offered a menu as to how they want their world to be. All we have is one day.
(This one)

I cannot understand why life happens as it does. I cannot understand why someone works so hard and gets so close to their dreams, only to watch it fall or slip away.
Intellectually, there are answers for each of these thoughts. But right now, I am not speaking intellectually.
I am speaking emotionally…

I remember when I was a small boy. My mother and father went out and left me at home with a sitter. I cannot recall who it was, or whether the sitter was a he or she. I do not recall what we were watching on television, but whatever it was, someone died in the show.
I was too young to understand death. I was just a little kid in my blue one-piece foot pajamas with white pads under the soles of my feet.

But suddenly, something clicked in my head.
The sitter tried to put me to bed, but I wouldn’t go.
I was crying.
Shortly after, my parents walked through the door.

Concerned with my tears, my mother asked, “Why are you crying?
I answered, “Because I don’t want my Daddy to die.”

That’s when The Old Man picked me up and promised, “You don’t have to worry about that for a long time, kid.”
I assume whoever died in that show we were watching was someone’s father….
That’s when I realized people die.

But moms are different. Moms aren’t supposed to get sick. Moms never leave and moms are supposed to be there when we need help picking up the pieces of our life.
Mom know bests, and being the youngest in the family, I will always be momma’s baby boy.

But my mom isn’t what she used to be. It’s hard to speak with her sometimes because her thoughts are too scattered. It’s hard to explain what she needs to do because she seldom listens. But in the end, it’s hard because the doctor says she doesn’t have much time left.

I don’t suppose the doctor meant she’ll go tomorrow or next week. He told me, “Let me see what we can do,” and since I am powerless, there is nothing I can do but place my faith where it belongs.

As I write this to you, I suppose most will read this as an outpouring message, which it is. But more, I write this to ease the thoughts and hush the sadness.

I write this to feel my emotion instead of repress them.

My mother once told me, “It’s alright to grieve; it means you’re alive. But we weep for ourselves and not the ones we lost.”

I don’t know about that…
What I do know is that today is not over; hope is not lost, and should God the Father hear my prayers, it would be nice to see my mother smile a little while longer.

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