I Want My Mom

Most any day, I could pull into the driveway,
the crackle of leaves beneath my tires
let's you know I am here.
You stand smiling at the kitchen sink.
The tile is well worn by the stove.
A fifteen inch television hums - the soaps or pro sports.
You know every Laker and Dodger by name.
But you only loved a few.
Ron Cey and Derek Fisher come to mind.
We sit and have coffee.
Strong coffee that has been sitting awhile.
You pull two lotto scratchers from your purse
"Pick one" you will say.
I scratch slowly and methodically and lose.
Your ticket wins $50 and you hand it to me.
You tell me that you meant to hand me the Crazy Eights ticket,
because I am loca, you joke.
When I am not looking, you place the ticket in my purse.
I tell you my woes and you listen.
You assure me that you will pray for me to the Sacred Heart.
And I know you will.
Some day you will become sick, and I will pray for you too.
Years later, and I still pray.
For God to heal my broken heart.
Because I want my mom.

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