Hurdling through the heavens at 500 mph, I often think of my mother as I observe the world from the window seat of a 747. I think of the contention we shared when she was alive, ponder the particulars in the decade following her death.
It’s a shame it often takes the loss of a loved one to move mountains. Why do we choose to make mountains out of mole hills anyway? How is it we profess to be listening and yet not hear the the hurt between the lines? Since when does love mean never having to say you’re sorry? Just because it’s all water under the bridge doesn’t mean you still can’t drown.
God knows, I’m a painfully slow learner.
God knows what’s in my heart. I just pray my mother knows, too.