A TIME TO BE TORN

A Mother's Letter, Unsent

Dearest One,

There is no way to mend this gash rent in the weave of my soul. Why do I try? It only frustrates me, angers me, makes me crazy with loneliness. No one, no thing, can heal this wound. Some days I know this, and resign myself to it. Other days someone scratches that 'psychic-itch' in a manner similar to yours, my child, and my heart leaps--but only for a moment. No one, no thing, can restore the beauty of a life once filled with your goodness, a life now shattered by the sudden violence of your exit from our world.

Our hearts are hungry for your presence; our ears strain to hear your laughter, your voice, your singing, to catch an echo from the storeroom of our memories. We groan with tears for our own survival without you...a nightly ritual, this travail. Perhaps these are the birthing cries of His Spirit from within us, moments of Divine intercession. Could it be He is making a different thing, even a useful thing, of these remnants of a love once lived?

That is my prayer. That is our only hope.

Always and forever,
Momma