It's here — the day.

 My mother was a beautiful soul. 

She didn't deserve the sickness that she bared. 

As her casket was lowering into the ground 

Instantaneously in that moment

I am a little boy - 

sitting in Church on Sunday morning. 

Listening to the monotonous voice of the old preacher, 

trying not to fall asleep.

I look over and my mother is

 flipping through her bible.

 The gold sheets making crips noises as she turns the pages. 

Why can't it be like this again?

 I wish I could go back to those simple days.

 When the only thing I had to worry about was what we

 were eating for Sunday lunch with the preacher.

 I want to take back all the hurtful things I said to her.

 The things that wounded her heart.

Why was I like that -

a little boy blinded by privilege, who couldn't understand

a mother's sacrifice?