More than Important

    My mother has always been an influence in my life. Sometimes the influence is bad and sometimes it is good. She specifically is not a bad influence; she has just stirred up bad emotions in me. Nobody can push our buttons like our lovers and our mothers. She can’t have a conversation without bringing her religion into it and trying to convert you. She loves everybody, no matter what. I remember when I was little and we would go shopping, I would wander off and I always found my mom by looking for her big hair. She has been my mirror when I didn’t want to face all the bad decisions that I was making in my life, but she is my own personal cheerleader. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer at the beginning of this year. It has been the most painful thing in my life to watch my mother lose weight rapidly.  Her skin is starting to hang of her bones and her eyes always look tired. She has not lost her spirit; she will perk right up when company walks in and tell them she is fine. The reality check that happens when you find out that your mother is dying of a rare cancer that no treatment known to mankind will slow down or cure is painful. The wind is knocked out of you. It’s like waiting for your world to fall apart. The promise of demise that you are not sure you want to believe. Sometimes I wish it would just hurry up and take her. Fulfill this promised demise. Yet, I find myself praying for forever.

 

   He is ten years old and one of the most loving little kids I have ever met. He is tall for his age and lanky. He wears glasses that he constantly pushes up on his nose when he gets nervous. He fidgets when he is sitting still, like he can’t wait to get up and run. If you hand him a computer he will turn into an educated computer technician, or at least you will think he has. He uses his iPod to send text messages to people that love him, through an application he downloaded. At ten he has an extensive contacts list. I ease drop on them every once in a while. We have long talks about love, hate and intolerance. I am blessed to have such an amazing son. He isn’t always the little old man trapped in the ten year old body. He has his moments when he misbehaves. It is funny to watch him when he realizes he is acting like a child. The old soul takes over again and he is quick to apologize and give you a hug.

 

    When I think back to when I was little and try and picture my father I visualize a shut door. He was always in his room with the door shut. On holidays he would go as far to tape up a sign that read “DO NOT DISTURB.” When I had done something bad enough my mother would decide it was his turn to punish me. I would have to go in his room to talk to him. He would take off his glasses; his beady eyes always scared me. One time he told me that if I continued to head down the path I was headed that my soul would turn black. I would no longer have God, Jesus or The Holy Ghost watching over me. He always knew what to say to scare you. I think that is a choice he made, to control and discipline with fear. I remember wishing I had a dad that thought of me as his little princess. My father has changed over the years; grandkids have turned him into a gushing grandpa. I will never know what caused this change because we don’t talk about stuff like that. I do know that he writes in his diary every day with his shaky hand. I am too afraid to touch them now, but one day I might read about how he thought of me as his little princess.