“Mom, can I move in with you?
“Of course, Mick, you know you can.”
“I’ll be up on the ninth of January.”
Your last night alive leaves
me bewildered.
You went to Grandma’s house
to be safe from drugs.
She turned you away;
no room at the Inn.
{Some people had endured enough of your addiction}
I’ll never know
why you and your
dealer hooked up.
In a shoddy hotel
room, you prepared
to get off.
“I have to be careful how
much I take; I’m moving
to my mom’s tomorrow!”
{You picked up the needle and spoon}
At 2:30 a.m.,
my phone rang.
Your number displayed.
“Mickey are you there?”
{Silence. Four times this happened.}
Why were you trying
to call me, Mickey?
Were you aware that you were
overdosing and wanted my help?
Did you know you were dying?
Were you in pain?
Were you afraid?
Perhaps you needed
Momma to help
you ease from this world
to the next?
What did you see as it was
happening?
{Or did you just want to tell me goodbye?}
Will my questions be answered?
Ever?
Stayed in bed for
nearly a year. Depression
and grief had me in handcuffs.
I tried not to think of you,
for fear I’d start to cry
and be unable to stop.
There’s a memorial for you
beside my bed ~
Your Ravens’ cap is snuggled
on your ashes, beside them
a picture of the last day I
saw you alive.
A beautiful angel looks
down on you.
Today I’m able to write again,
sweet Mickey. I see you in
the butterflies, the beautiful
landscape, the clouds
and in the rainbows.
I feel you at my back when
I’m writing; I talk to
you in my
dreams.
Grieving is possible
at long last, my baby.
Make no mistake: there will
always be a gaping, ragged
hole in my heart that won’t
ever close.
What did you want when
you called? Mothers
are supposed to
protect their children.
That’s the part of
this horror story that I
just can’t accept.
