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Used to think I could fix her.
Change the weeping of my Mother's heart. Mend the break in my Mother's mind. "Can you ever forgive me," she asked. My Mother lay like crumpled paper on her bedroom floor. I carried her to her bed, gently said "rest now." Whispered: "let all cares cease." My sad pronouncement of peace. I sat and watched until she tumbled into accordion slumber. Rest now, Mother. I can't fix you. Don't know if I ever will or can. Still I prayed the prayer of the undelivered. It must have been bad medicine. The cure didn't take. It was my mistake to believe. Used to think I could fix him. Behave so he'd come home for supper. Endure when he beat me and when he didn't. Forgave him for his blackouts. Still, I took the blame. It was my call, the one that lost him everything. Voluntary treatment didn't save him. But soon he declared his life transformed- with the advent of Leo Bascaglia and the mightier power of amends. And amends to his Mother became the carrot of his existence... Yes, he was going to fix it, his past, that is. The day before we were to leave to see her his Mother died. Another prayer for the undelivered. I held my Father close. Though I never knew him well, I could never let a stranger cry. After the funeral he went back to the bottle. Yes, it was my mistake to believe. Used to think I could fix them. Legal Copyright March 5 for this work by this author , 2010 All Rights Reserved By this Author Melissa A. Howells and also legal copyright for this site Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World Vote for this poem |
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