I’M SORRY






MAMA






























When I was young, my mama meant the world to me. I have very fond memories with my mama
. We would collect sea shells by the shore during the summer, or tell each other scary stories at night. Whenever I got a booboo, mama would tend to it and hold me in her arms. Whenever mama held me, I would smell her hair. Mama smelt of Vanilla, mhhmmm. There was no one in our small town in Georgia that could cook like mama. She made the best fried chicken and cornbread. I still remember everything like it was yesterday. I used to be a shy and timid little girl, but mama was the only one who really understood me. Because we lived in a small town, everybody knew about everyone’s business. The people in the town used to call me a freak, but mama used to tell ’em off.

“Leave my lil’ baby alone,” She would say. “She’s a sweet lil’ girl.”









Yes, those were the good and innocent days, it wasn’t until I turned thirteen that things changed for the worst.










When I turned thirteen, I met a boy named Terrace, who introduced me to drugs. I became so addicted to drugs, that it started to control my life. I would stay away from home for days, or even weeks. Mama would whoop me silly when I came back. She never called the cops for she knew that I would always return home. At fifteen, I dropped out of school completely, and turned to prostitution. I never saw my mama after that. Sex and drugs made me not care for her nor anybody else. They even made me not care about myself.












I can go on for hours telling all the stupid and horrible things that I’ve done to myself and to others, but just thinking or talking about it is painful. I know you all are expecting me to say that the reason why my story is named “I’m Sorry Mama” is because my mama died, but that isn’t the reason why, I’m the one who is dying.








I’m only nineteen, and I have AIDS. I don’t remember how are when I got it, but I know I have it. I never even got up the nerve to say anything to my mama, I messed up real bad, and now I feel ashamed to even look her in the eye and tell her that her only child is dying. The only way I know how to communicate with her is by writing this little short story. Because I can’t come out to my mama and tell her what I need to say, I’ll just write it down in my story.











I’M SORRY MAMA, AND I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU!