Grief

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This is a personal story of the lives touched by my father. I'll submit some new ones from time to time between the poems.






Mamaw?



Yes, Autumn.



How old was Papaw when he died?



I told her 86.



Then in her little girlish voice she inquired how old I was.



I told her 71.



Mamaw?



Yes, Autumn.



Papaw's hair had a pretty white color to it.



Yes, it did, Autumn. Mamaw?



Yes, Autumn.



She took a deep sigh trying to hold back tears.



As a small tear rolled down her little smooth cheek and, she spoke through a voice that cracked.



Mamaw, your hair isn't white, your not going to leave me like Papaw did.



I miss Papaw.



With my eyes moistening up I let out a deep breath. I do too.



But Papaw is still with us see his picture she said.



He'll always be with us, Autumn. Do you want me to turn Papaw's picture down.



No, Mamaw, he'll always be watching over us.



She then took her small hand and made it into a point.



She raised her arm and pointed toward heaven.



I love, Papaw.
I do,too.
It started to sprinkle outside.
Mamaw, do you know why it's raining?
No , I replied curious to see her answer.
Because all the angels in heaven are crying and Papaw is crying with them.
Why shouldn't they be happy for Papaw to be home?
Their crying because they know how much I miss him.
The raindrops are their tears she said with all the innocence in the world.
Mamaw?
Yes, Autumn.
I wouldn't be afraid of dying to go see Papaw again.
I hugged her as tight as I could and sobbed with her uncontrollably.
I am leaning on her as much as she is me.
Finding faith and strength of a little child.
May Jesus give her comfort and console her as I do.
by
www.lancessoulsearching.com

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