Too often we wake up to this tragic news.
A young woman left on the side of the road battered
Her killer might swear she asked for it even if she didn’t choose.
The fancy clothes she wore the night before all tattered.
But who are they to play the judge of her life?
She was young and she had a child.
She might have even been someone's wife?
You know, with the right company she could have changed.
She would have skipped clubbing many weekends,
Her life could of simply gotten rearranged.
A simple change of bad habits, toxic relationship and even friends.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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