by Susan Shearouse
Journal Entry. May 12. Sunday. Mother’s Day
Sitting on the porch, comforted by the sweet soft rain. This bench is sheltered just so. I can look out across the front yard at my gardens there and stay dry here.
Mother’s Day. I am the mother of three children. One is not with me. Other people say “he is here.” No. Here is rumbling through the neighborhood in an old truck that needs a new muffler. Here is bounding up the front steps, bursting through the front door calling out “Hi Mom!” Here is wrapping those long skinny arms around me. Here is that soft place on the side of his neck that I kissed as I said a silent prayer of protection for him.
No. Don’t tell me about the power of prayer – unless you want to tell me that some people’s prayers are better than others… more powerful maybe? Or does God just love them more?
I wept in Karen’s office. Why did he leave me? “He didn’t,” she said. “He just left the pain he couldn’t bear any longer.”
Yes. I’ve spent more nights in prayer and worry for him than for Eli or Fer. Because there always seemed to be something more fragile about him. He was less tethered to this life. The others seemed sturdier, somehow. Eli said, after the news, “well, if he hadn’t done it now he would have done it later.” I don’t want to believe that. I believe ‘if only…’ If only I had been there… If only I‘d tried one more time, or twenty more times, to get him to the help he needed.
How could such a handsome, kind, loving, brighter than I could imagine human being ever carry such pain, to think that the only way was out?