We all knew she needed help.
But none of us knew how.
And none of us could swallow our pride and just ask her what she needed.
I don’t know why.
Maybe we were too ashamed we didn’t know how to approach our own mother.

So we let the years slip unhappily past us and hoped we would never inherit the misery embedded in her soul.

But I did.

And I didn’t know how to say it aloud.
And I still don’t.

Each one
From one’s little noose
Cranes out
Yells and shouts
Groans aloud
And grows stout
And the noose tightens
Leaving no way to creap out
Till at the end
Swollen
Spent out
Becomes silent.

I am also having my turn among all.

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