The Piper Squeqeath...

I'm sitting here, post mom-visit, trying to cool down the apartment and listening to Piper chew on her most annoying toy. I hid the other one, that had the most high-pitched squeaky sound. It's only on the top of the entertainment center, which she can reach, but thank God, she hasn't figured out that secret code.

My mom's hair is falling out, due to her chemo treatments. I try to laugh it off for her and not make it a big deal. It's a big deal for her. She loves her hair. She will drive through tornadoes, hurricanes, personal tragedies, it doesn't matter, she will get her freaking hair done. I hate to see her scalp starting to become barren, but I hate it more for her to see it. She runs her hand through it, and a wad of hair comes clean, and a shadow passes over her face. That, I hate.

It's ironic, in a way. We went to see "God's Not Dead" yesterday at her behest, and I enjoyed it for the most part. The acting was abhorrent, but the message, which was the point, was clear. If you believe in God, which I, and my mother do, your life and death make sense. In theory, you don't have to think about the horror of death and worry about your and your loved ones' faith. And that's fine. I have no doubt whatsoever, that if my mother died tomorrow, she would be in Heaven and live the eternal good life.

The thing that I have a problem with, and I guess this is where we all struggle, is, why do we, on earth, even saved, have to be left with such crappy, horrible results? I understand that everything happens for a reason, but in the last four years, I've lost my father, grandmother, and brother, and my mother has cancer now. God, we all have given our lives to you, and we are not bad people. Give us a break. If nothing else, I prayed that you might heal my father, and I understand that might've been out of your purvey, but save my mother for at least a few years, if you can. I implore you.

In a whisper, you answered me. It was not what I wanted to hear.
Silent speaking allows for cruelty in its basest form.
You spat at me to calm down and be less happy.
I don't know what this means. You're always sad.

I cry myself to sleep at night, and I wake up puffy.
You sleep hard after a day of coldness.
My heart is open wide, and much punctures it.
You heart is a shell of glass and cement that is impenetrable.

Everything we experience enters our raw, beating heart
like vinegar, some of us more impervious than others.
My heart splays open like a science fair exhibit on
any given day.

The raw acidity pours in haphazardly,
and yet, occasionally, the little bits of hope and love survive.
I can't close my heart to the rare, raw bits that show, but
I can apply a bit of logic to those open pores.
You can't, because you don't have the luxury of choice.