If roses grow in heaven, Lord,
Then pick a bunch for me.
Place them in my Mother’s arms,
And tell her they’re from me.
Tell her that I love and miss her,
And when she turns to smile,
Place a kiss upon her cheek,
And hug her for a while.
My mom was cruelly, unmercifully, tragically murdered when I was nearly 10 years old. It’s been 43 years of making my own way. Of feeling 10 years old, and being told your mommy is dead. Of trying to be, hoping to be, the daughter you would have been proud of. One you would have enjoyed and laughed with, shopped with, had coffee with. We could have shared cooking secrets and and raising children secrets. You should have been a proud Granny; and led me through the baby years, soothed through the toddler tantrums and guided me through their school days. I needed your wisdom, sympathy and hand to hold through their teens and young adulthood. I needed you through my teens and adulthood. I wish I’d known you as an adult. Or you’d known me as an adult, a wife, mother, grandmother. You would have loved your grandchildren. My youngest has your magnificent titian hair! Your Great-grandchildren are equally wonderful!
I miss you Mom, especially in recent months. I long to have your arms hold me and to hear you tell me it’ll all be alright. After 43 years, I am still your little girl.
But I’ll be fine, Mom. Afterall, I AM your daughter!
This post is in response to a challenge issued by Sue Llewellyn, A Word in Your Ear. Once a week a word will be picked from randomly opened page of her dictionary. Post a photo, poem, story, whatever to describe the word.