When we noticed her nights were short
And she could hardly have a meal
That’s when we really knew
It was all becoming real
She stopped taking extra shifts
Or even showing up at all
But I don’t think she really knew
It was all becoming real
Our mom grew sick with worry
While she grew sick with fear
The shaking, the sounds, the shadows
It was all becoming real
“I need help. I need help. I need h...
The distant wailing of wind whisks the wintry bristles of my skin. The low, sardonic growl of thunder reverberates in the bony cage ‘round my heart. As I hastily ride on, the path is at length obscured by a thick cloud of russet dust. Like a whimpering creature soothed by her mother’s gentle song, the nebulous dirt road is settled by a gentle rain, and familiar Old Oaks and wooden fences come into...
