Imagine

Imagine that ears never again will hear the shining smile

in a loved one’s voice—that minds never more will memorize, or

seize the opportunity to see,

moisture

as it builds to arise, in that one’s friendly, laughing eyes.

Imagine that there never will ever be another time for an

enlightened

parent-to-child discourse; Nor, ever will there be a chance

to enjoy or to endorse

a shared piece of the holiday season’s most

delicious sweet-potato pie.

Imagine that all stimulating conversation is so cruelly

shut down—no longer allowed—as if despised—without

ever being able to suddenly pick-up—a new.

Notice now, how time flies as we realize the end has come

for all those warm and loving morning hugs

in which one can indulge, and savor, and

renew.

Unfortunately, I must admit, the definite finality

I find in the thing that so recently and unfairly was

done—

It is a sad and senseless reality in which I

unfortunately, cannot at all see, a victory, really,

for anyone.

Now please, just imagine that the only thing left

by this most imposing theft

is my prayer for God’s strength, for guidance,

and for His grace—by which I will get through,

(I pray),

the grand routine of just one more dark and

cloudy day.

Imagine all of this and so much more, then one clearly

will be able to see

a grieving mother as she now resides way down deep

in the recesses of each

and every part of a broken-heart and a profoundly

confused mind.

But, also imagine, now if you will, just how grateful I must yet

be

for the dear two beautiful children who now are left

and still remain so near…

Right here, with me.

For A Broken Wing…

With this broken wing, I no longer can fly. Knowing this,  I am left only with the intensity of pain—a perfect match  for the deep wound now found down in my heart—it survives with the flooding rain.

Ah…this broken little wing—a very sad thing—I no longer will fly so high in my travels of the deep blue skies. Nor can this truth now rightlybe denied:

This one now shattered, and the other strong one had soared—darting and swift; Now so weak, this little wing lacks in ability and in strength—why it even seems to be missing in its structural confidence.

When I try to fly with this very frail wing, it feels as though, I should (perhaps) just give up on everything.   Yet, there is something deep inside which continues to yearn—giving me cause to keep looking up as I wait for another turn.

Dear Lord, I appeal for this broken wing which, I still believe that you can heal. My pain is so great—my concerns sincere. This strange place in which I now sit—I must say, “It feels un-natural and so unreal!”

My little wing was perfected to fly. So where is the healing cure to fortify? I sigh, and realize that if this deal is to be sealed, that it is: “There” where I must put my trust for real.   So, patiently, I must adjust as I wait for my time’s healing slate.

For right now though, I just need a quick little mend for  this one-wing-thing that has so severely been torn a-part and is now bent.

This is my Prayer and most sincere desire. It starts and then rings out from the deepest depths and the complexities of my heart.

The Ugliness of Life Without You

There is no sunshine, nor is there rain. The brilliant ray that used to show in your ever “killer” smile, has now completely gone away.  Tears as fresh raindrops fall from overwhelmingly heavy eyelids—drops which used to serve to drain the silent soul’s bright islet.

Ears no longer delight to hear the gentle laughter of innocents commonly so seen at play. The exotic birds that used to populate and bring their morning’s song, strangely are all silent these days.

The delightful aroma of freshly made brew no longer pleases in its steaming cup. Though all attempts to sail clearly still are made, nothing at all is the same; And, unfortunately, it would appear that life seems to have lost its aim.

An affectionate touch—though a technique of sweet release for only just a time, now never seems to be enough to completely satisfy.  Our world’s most common occurrences so often for granted we take, currently seem to be un-necessary leaving us accordingly estranged.  My, my how much even the least of things has changed!

Were on earth did you go?  I sure would love to know.  But as you said the last time I heard, “You know, Mom, I’ll be Ok.” Though, I believe this to be true, I guess, Son, I’m just missing you.

I have my sight, I have my hearing and am yet blessed with my sense of taste and touch.  Though still able to smell—all so well, the sense for which I am now most aware—the one which stands out so much is:  The ugliness of life now seen in His Hand compared to our lives here on earth—life which we must continue on…even in the midst of the absence of…

You,

Our Christopher,

Our brother, and our son.

Quote

Take a big, deep breath it’s almost over. Purposefully breathe till all thoughts become less sober.
Come now, and be aware of each breath and concentrate.  The pain within will soon drain away
and then it will all have to dissipate.

Of course, this hurt would desire to take
a fresh choice seat where it would wait until the brain could hardly function, much less be available to compete.

Remember to move outwards to receive love from others as a form of sweet relief. Choosing to go completely away from yourself,

Breathe!

            Breathe in faith; But, be cautioned to know, that your most treasured desire, may come along sort of slow. But, breathe anyway and then believe that the Breath of the Lord through his grace, will somehow sustain you and substantiate.

And when one part of you questions,“How long before I’m through?” The voice within will know just what to do. Clearly it will answer from deep in the heart and quietly remind:

“You must breathe your deep breaths….Breath in for peace and exhale out for rest…

Know that our healing comes along only as we conform and take deep breaths….

You Are the Cowardly One

You want me to believe that I’m not seeing clearly while the evil one is there in my back yard. You want me to agree to see things as you say. But actually, I see right where you are.

You are the cowardly one who won’t tell the truth. You tell others what to do. It is your lot to continue to stir up the pot. But, is your concern genuine—actually, I think not!

You have allowed this evil in my house yet strive to hide the important facts. Your acts are those of a coward and your dirty deeds are to be swept away like the trashed droppings of a nasty little mouse.

Black Life Matters

We hear the cry that black lives matter. Yet we sit and sigh while more lives are scratched each day. But, when our sons are killed by others, our “community” programs initiate all sorts of protests in various ways.

Actually, all created life should be of equal concern—from the very moment that one is snatched away—with head laid down in death, loved ones too, also succumb and just about lose their way.

Not to mention the fact, that each time a “perp” is carted off to jail, another son is removed from the street. His dear family, then, is forced to meet the process of suffering from the cell—here yet is a different form of hell.

I agree that black life matters, but wherein do these lives hold their value? Is it only when stolen by one of a different race? When did the worth of our children so depreciate? Are these poor sons’ still not just as cut-down and shortened when murdered by one’s own clone?

It would appear that we complain more loudly in protest when the lives of our boys’ are shortened by someone of another color, than when our lifecycles are stolen by the actions of our own—(someone with deep, dark tones).

Why are we not distraught when our children are caught (either as victims of violent death or as a prisoner for their crime)? Are these stolen lives suddenly more meaningful when killed by others, over those losses which are reported to occur over 100,000 times?

When the media cries in protest that black life matters too, are we to believe that black life slayed by someone else is deemed worthy of more praise or that we must evoke just cause? For these hundreds of slaughtered ones, is there no healing gauze?

The truth be told, it would appear that we are prone to loudly object when black lives are prematurely checked by someone who sits in the other net. But we are curiously mousy quiet and refuse to fuss when these deaths are attributed to those who seem to look like one of us.

Though we may demonstrate, and cry and chatter for a while, it makes one wonder, just how much—really, does black shattered life matter—though the truth cuts like a knife, how long before we take up this fight?

We Hurt

The pain for each has manifested itself in a million different ways–measuring at various peaks each step, and every day. The one true thing that always seems to remain: We hurt.

For all those glorious moments we shared, and for those we no longer can enjoy–even for those now seemingly “not so bad times,” from your past, when you were just a boy–if only we would be allowed to on that day revert, we could perhaps take hold to eradicate
this hurt.

For all those future-tense laughs and jokes, and the serious life talks too, these all are things we sorely will miss each time we think of you. With nothing else to say, there is no dirt to pay—just this simple family truth, “Oh, boy”, do we hurt for you.

We hurt, we cry, and then we wonder why—a cycle which continues until our thoughts are completely confused. Then the various levels of anger set in as we consider just how much here on earth, you were mis-used.

Eventually, though our mode shifts to “normal” as if all is well. We deny the basic facts. But, this story just won’t sell. For me, it probably will be a lifetime or more. But, nothing ever shall be the same–not even the light of a new day’s sunshine, or the moisture of the fresh pouring rain.

When they chose to take your life, it was as if they had used a knife—as a chunk of me was cut and has left here too. That missing piece is what gave me purpose and walked me through—that’s how I knew how to do all those things that together we passed through.

As your mother, my grief may be somewhat different than that of all the others. But, in looking at the overall situation, there is yet one thing to say, the plain and simple reality might seem to some like brutality. But son, I hope you know—for you, we hurt.