This is for Sunday, actually missed it because I had to help a friend out and just fell in bed afterwards and lost track of time. I'll have Monday's story up soon.
Well... I kind of blame my friends for sending me sad stories with a subject of child-parent losses. So this technically came about from that. My mother is still alive, just figured I'd write this type of story, and then realizing I need to spend more time with her.
*picture is originally from http://www.superstock.com/stock-photos-images/1598R-9962432
01/12/2014 (Sunday)- A Wayward Son’s Hand
As a boy I was always holding on to her hands: they were warm, safe.
Protected me from fears and wiped away my tears. They were gentle, loving hands.
As I grew older, rougher, my fingers slipped away from hers. Finding small comforts in my vices and personal sins, losing sight searching for myself, breaking the heart of those compassionate hands.
In a sterile room of beeping machines, I find myself, finally, and sat beside her bed.
Lost wayward fingers finding their way back home.
Trembling hands finding a mother still waiting for her son.
Gentle, loving, safe, cold hands.