Her Boy
Winter is deep, and your mother, she's all alone except for the old dog that sleeps near the door because he likes the cold. Frost decorates the windows. She'll lick a fingertip then press it to the glass, leaving a small hole to let the darkness in. She's a widow, poor thing. Your father is only recently deceased and now you, her son, have left her too. To go your own way, you explained. Off on a quest to who knows where, doing who knows what, with who knows who. She rocks and sings, "My boy, my boy," just as she's done since the day that you were born. The wind blows and knocks the trees around, then whistles faintly in the crannies and the cracks to harmonize with the incessant ringing in her ears. She's not well, we get that. She's tender in places you don't want to know about. She aches in places you can't see... Read the whole story HERE