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Night's Hand

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When I was little I believed there was a man inside my chest, not a fragile heart or lungs, and that man was me. He lived his life the same way I lived mine, doing everything the same, saying the same hurtful things, only his life was a little delayed. How I wish today that I could switch places with that little man, to take back the “I hate you” I said to Her as I slammed by bedroom door. But I am not so naïve to believe that I can anymore. I can whisper all the apologies of the world to the dirt, but She will never hear my eulogy.

Every knock at the door could be Her, come back just to say She forgives me. But never do I receive Her loving embrace upon opening the door, only colorless flowers and heartless condolences. I take the flowers and the letters and throw them away, they can’t understand. How can anyone? How can I? I know I can’t, if only I could understand then perhaps I might be able to deal with my fault. But how does one understand Death?

The woman who raised me and showed me only love is now buried under my insults and anger. Every outburst I had She forgave, why then is this one so different? Her life was plagued by misery and now, with my help, Her death was as well. How I wish to be Her shield from that truck, to guard Her from the horrors that spilled from my own mouth, to stop Her from leaving that night and ending up under Death’s white sheet. She became another statistic on the sheet of drunk driver victims, only the real murder lay at Her house, think of how cruel She made his life. How can I live if the person who lived solely for me is dead?

I was then plagued by misery and doubt just as She was. Every moment spent in grief over what I believed I had done, at how horrible of a person I was. I spent my nights broken and in tears, my days alone and self mortifying. No matter how hard or how many times I scrubbed my hands Her blood would never wash away, I was doomed to always be the blame of Her death. How can I excuse myself of something I know I have done?

What do she have me do? If She were beside me, down which path would She tell me to go? Would She tell me to trade a life for a life? Or would She tell me to live on? What would She have me do?

Live.

Live to the fullest, enjoy every moment, and let nothing slip by. Live the life She wanted me to, the life She strived to provide me. I will live solely for Her just as She lived solely for me. Her love, that ever-burning flame, shall live on through me. I will show my children the love She showed me, protect them from the wild blows the world may deliver, and always...always forgive them.

I will never know if She forgives me for the things I said, I believe she understands the pressure I felt those years and that She forgives me for my rashness. Every time I lay in bed and think of the crime I still feel I committed I feel the embrace of the night, soothing my woes. Every night I am guided to the sweet release of sleep by my Mother’s hand.





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