Personal Narratives Writer

Morning Pages for the Motherless, Part 2

Photo by Bruno Pires on Pexels.com

Everything I hold of her is past tense. It is piled up like salt rock that will wear away, bit by bit, with every gust of wind, with every drop of acid rain. Until there is nothing left but ghosts. I need her. I need her today and always. Just as strongly as I needed her when she was still my mom. Before she became Ma. I need her. But what for?

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