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The Switch
The switch cracked the air, triggering our fears, and sent us running. Mama was at it again, being the disciplinarian Papa was before his passing. “Come here to me,” she yelled to no avail.
My brothers and I raced to the door seeking refuge behind trees, or behind the house away from Mama’s gaze; dispersed like a herd of deer at the first sight of the switch. It was the one that Mama always picked, a brown, leather bound set of ropes wound like a snake in her closet.
We divided Mama’s focus but didn’t laugh in pride, the pain in her eyes fairing worse than any flogging down our backside. Her love was strange but true. She’d always say, “Better you cry now than I cry later.”
We pray that God removes her pain and make Mama what she was before the loss. Before Papa was no more and her smile stopped touching her heart. And then we say, “Lord, don’t make her believe this lie, that without her life’s love, she can’t have the love of her life, Jesus Christ.
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