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| Abused Mothers, Wounded Fathers by © butterflydancer707 I kept my mother and father longer than most Indians my age I was 41 when she died, 42 when he drifted away, Yet, sometimes I despair how I wasted all that time I never really got to know them until long after they'd gone. Even from a distance I think I always knew my mother loved me I used to wonder about my dad though being as close to him as I was it was hard to tell. It must have been hard on them how I stayed away, kept all shut up inside. Never married. Never gave them grandbabies to redeem themselves on. I heard dad tell it once how he figured it was his fault how I grew to mistrust the world. It makes me ache inside to think about it. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and I tell them things I never told them in life it's easier for me to talk to them when they can't answer back. Mom and dad grew up in residential school there was little love in those places. When I lie very still I picture them as children five and six-years-old. I take them up into my arms hold them tightly, rock them gently kiss them all over their faces the way babies ought to be kissed because I know there was no one to do that for them back then, it's somehow soothing to me. |