Laughing at myself

I am tired of my mother's death.  Yet, I'm drawn back to this event in my life.  Who am I fooling?  I am that thing that once adorned your home, your life and now it's broken, chipped, cracked, imperfect.  But you've had it so long that it would be a shame to simply toss it.  I have become that thing.  There are moments when I feel strong, invincible almost.  Then I encounter that lost orphan girl without a mother and fall to pieces.  Maybe there is no hope.  Maybe the only thing you can do in the end is just put one foot in front of the other, remind yourself how to breathe, inhale and then exhale.  It's easy enough.  Focus on that.  That's all I seem to be capable of these days.

Frankly, I don't give a damn anymore about you the reader.  You see, buried inside of me is a pain I can't escape.  So I'm not writing for you, I'm writing for me.  I'm hoping that if I make my fingers dance over these keyboards enough that maybe, maybe a coherent thought will appear on this screen that might make sense of all this.  You see there is a still a silent echo of a question that's ringing in my head.

Mother you told me it was better this way.  I disagree.  I'm not seeing how this is really better than any other solution.  Pity they don't have internet in heaven.  I doubt she would go online.  Who would do it for her?  She didn't even have an email.  No Facebook, either.  So the echo just bounces around the chamber of my head, and I am just stuck with the question, "Why?"

The little girl buried under the pain is petulant.  She stamps her foot and shouts "Not fair!"  Sorry, kid, it really does suck to  be us.