Half Awake

He sleeps as the clock strikes 5:00am. I slightly stir as I do in my morning rituals. The bed stays still, and the heavy blanket moves with my legs. The room remains virgin to the light.

He lies to my left and I lie to his right. He faces the wall and his back faces me, welcoming. Through my half slumber, I gather my strength to move myself. I land with my arms wrapping around him, my right hand intertwines with his left hand, my legs buckling underneath his legs as though he sits on my lap, but sideways.

I kiss his right shoulder as his body nestles and aligns itself with mine.

Unaware of his slight smile, I hold him a little tighter, I pull him in a little closer, and I kiss him a little gentler.

He stirs, his head tilts to the right, stretching to see me, stretching to kiss me. I push myself so his efforts are not too much. His lips touches mine and we break apart.

His head returns to the pillow and he returns to his slumber.

I am awaken by his kiss and by the rise and fall of his chest, which I feel on my arms. My heartbeat aligns itself to his breathing. I smile.

I'm awake; he's asleep. We are half awake.

Mother Dear

Mother was never educated in the art of persuasion. She never learned patience, for Jesus pardoned her quick actions as long as she did it in his name. She walks with stride with her new clothes on her back, tags freshly cut off. Her sermons guilt the sinners and highlight the fruits of her life. "With God, I can do all things, and he has gifted me with many pleasures."

Once home, her clothes unzips. She then washes her clothes in the tub, and then leaving them on the plastic and metal hangers in the bathtub to dry. She slips into her comfort clothes, which is the synthetic silk pajamas she purchased in Vietnam. Her hair washed of products, her make-up wiped away.

She stomps around the cluttered home screaming her dissatisfaction. The fridge are filled to the brimmed, yet she has difficultly deciding what to eat, and what to make that she could eat. Her son, watching TV, plays with his toys. She asks him if he'd like to eat; he responds with a nod.

Unfamiliar with his answering, she screams insults of his incompetence for not answering. Her anger increase with every movement as she prepares his food.

She ask him to sit stills; he plays with his toys. Her annoyance boils and she screams for him to standstill. Wide-eye, her son freeze, mouth opened.

She's irritated. Her tones lowers, and her comments continue to carry angry words, threatening to leave the family as her sister did with hers.

She drowns the spoon in the soup, raises it and lifts it into her sons mouth.

She's unhappy. She cries herself to sleep. Her children hopes old age would come and consume her, weaken her soul. Her children hopes her God would rescue her from her pain, not through death but through understanding. Her children hopes She leaves.

You've Heard it Before

"I'll be there, soon," he says. "I promise," he whispers.

He delivers. A knock, a door opens, and there he stands. His face scorched by his mother's drinking during pregnancy. Where his right eye would be, a few black head has gathered on stretched skin. His hair is parted on the side; every strand in place. His beard shaved and his nose hair trimmed. His right ear, smaller than his left ear, has blotches of what looks like melted skin that has cooled, has not left the side of his face. His smile's brighter than ever, whiter than ever, lovelier than ever, but nothing compared to mine.

It's been 5 days, 2 hours, 7 minutes, and 3 seconds, no wait, five seconds since I last saw him, since I last hugged him, since I last waved goodbye to him, since I last smiled with him.

He swings his head at my neck and once it touches, he turns his head from side to side heavily, slowly, caressing me with his chin, his cheeks, his ears. Though his arms are absent to embrace me, what he does with his head joined with the tears dragged from his eye to the length of my neck lets me know - he feels what I feel.

He is back and in-front of me, touching me, smiling with me, and soon, sleeping with me. He is back.

I'll Have What She Doesn't Have

I have a grandchild. His name is Tom. I am Tom's father's mother.

Tom has another grandmother, Tom's mother's mother. She's 65, I'm 83. Her skin glows, and mine does too with the help of some make up. Her husband is still alive; my husband is dead. I digress.

Tom never listens to me when I ask him to eat his cereal in the morning. Tom never listens to me when I ask him to clean up. He listens when She ask.

He doesn't pout when his mother ask him to say goodbye to Her. He often asks where I am a few hours after I leave. He doesn't notice.

I wish I was too tired to care, like my children like to think I am.