Mother Do You Think They'll Drop the Bomb?

This is basically a monologue. I want to remember this so I'm putting it here.

It's an early morning. Yesterday, your mom and you had yet another fight. You really went at each other. Hammer and nails. Abuses were hurled, promised broken and ultimately your dad threw you bodily from the room. Whose fault was it? Was it yours for not understanding or was it hers for provoking? 

You open your eyes. Reach for your glasses. Sigh.

And suddenly you see the bookshelf. JRR Tolkien. Neil Gaiman. Colin Dexter. Hemingway. You remember the book club on Facebook and the oh so special friend you made there. You remember her obsession with Backman and how you yourself nearly wanted to punch Kevin hard for what he did to Maya. 

You remember The Old Man and the Sea. You remember learning so many words, of visiting so many worlds. The conversations you wish you could have had with authors. The one time Jeffery Archer said your writing had potential.

And suddenly, you're two or three years old and you've got your first pair of glasses. Your mother gives you a book. You fall in love.

And so when your mother wakes up, you give her a cup of tea. 

Your entire house is your mother. She hides in every nook and cranny. She lives in pages, in ebooks. 

Which mother do you want to remember? And why do you fight her? Doesn't it seem shallow to you? Remember not to let your anger at some illness cloud the memory of a woman giving her child the key to a world where he has found peace. 

Remember. Please remember. 

The Bilge Master