Writing

The Gritty Ones 1941

As I think back on the life that Mary shared with me, I’m reminded of something someone once told me at my mother’s funeral. After the wagon left carrying her body and my father’s broken spirit, one of our neighbors gave me a sad smile and told me that the it would get easier.

That the pain I felt would fade, like a scar fresh and pink with new blood soon fades to a hardened white shell. I remember returning the smile at the nameless person, remember standing there praying that they were right and that I might wake tomorrow feeling righted. But even now, even though my mother’s been dead some twenty years, the pain I felt standing on the porch beside my sick siblings, has never left. The scar still remains fresh and tender. And I know that it can never heal. I wonder if Mary knows the same.

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