A Mother’s Grief Never Goes Away …
By Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee
Seagulls walked on the sand, flew up in the sky
Sunlight kissing their wings … as they soared
It came to my mind the evening my son died
I know the last sounds he heard were the ocean, sea gulls
He died on the soft, damp sand by the ocean
His little son was close by …saw him fall
Daddy, get up … come play with me
Daddy, won’t you get up … come play with me
He was too young to know his daddy had played
For the first, last time at the beach with him
He was too young to know how excited his daddy was
To be taking his son to the beach to run, play
Too young to know … his daddy had made it just in time
To play with him … to leave a beautiful memory behind
As he went to Heaven that evening … his spirit soared above
To look down with sadness at his little son he had to leave behind
Tommy, come home … the sea gulls sang
He watched his son call to him to come play
He drifted down to put his hand gently on his son’s head
His son looked up, never saw him … tears in his blue, blue eyes
Daddy! Daddy! Daddy, please get up! Come play with me!
He shook his daddy’s shoulders … he never moved
Young as the little boy was … he instinctively knew something was wrong
He laid his little blonde head down on his daddy’s chest
Wept for him … somehow, he knew Daddy wouldn’t be playing anymore
He felt a hand touch his shoulders, looked up, saw a group of people
Who became his guardian angels until his mother could be found
One picked up the cellphone that had fallen to the ground
Dialed the last number called … to a home two-hundred miles away
The woman answered with a smiling, happy voice
Hello, Tommy! An expression of puzzlement came across her face
When a strange voice answered her … why do you have my son’s phone?
It was my voice … I was the woman Tommy last called … I was his mother
My world ended that evening for almost three years
To this day, I still can’t believe my only child died, my son
So strong, so vibrant … so full of life; how could that happen?
Can you imagine such … imagine your adult child is gone?
You can’t imagine … it hurts too bad to think about it
A real person who grew up with his own special personality
With a voice, laugh all his own … a person whom you gave birth to
Your own beautiful creation … a real part of yourself
Someone you love with your very Heart, so thankful for
Knowing he’d always be there when one day you become old
Never expecting him … to die before you
If I’d been at the ocean, I would have cried with my very Heart
Son, please come back … please come home!
Photo Credit is mine… is of my son … Tommy, grandson, and owned by me, Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee.
Note by this author:
I write over and over about the evening my son, my child died. I try to imagine exactly what happened, see it in my mind. I will probably do this the rest of my life. I miss my son … though, somehow I’ve accepted his death … the pain is just as great.
The trapped bird sensation still fills my stomach at times, I feel panicky … sick inside. I want to cry out to the Heavens above. I try to think of other things fast, so, I won’t become lost in my grief.
Grief is an awful thing … it’s like falling into an ocean of darkness that threatens to drown you. It’s very hard to come back from. Thankfully, I had Skip and our Pups… they are … why … I came back. I had no one else left in this world but, them to come back to.
I’ve never felt sorry for myself, nor wallowed in self-pity. I stayed in the darkness for protection from the pain that hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
I know Tommy can’t come back. I don’t question ‘why’ did he die. I know these are for-real ‘impossible’ things. So, that proves the old saying ‘anything is possible’ isn’t … exactly true. 🙂
I don’t feel bitter, angry because Tommy’s gone. I just feel the bittersweetness from the sweet memories of my son … my golden child. The precious baby I brought in this world.
Writing helps me to cope … through time, you will see me writing about this over, and over. Know that while I’m writing, I’m also, imagining at the same time how my son’s last moments were; what he heard … what he saw. If his soul soared above to look down at little Taban, his precious son.
Know I’m examining every little detail that I know, sense about my son’s death. Why? I think, I don’t really know, but … I think every grieving mother must do this. This grieving mother does. Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee
Colors of My Life 