I was born into a world just like any you might come from, where people do die and people do hate.  This very morning my mother fell down to pray, and prayed to save us from the enemy.  She would die if she knew it was me.  I am the one standing against tradition, fighting to rid us from the terror of ourselves.  I fear that I will do too good a job, and I fear that I will fail in fires.  I put a hand upon my mother’s back and looked down at her, splayed so purposefully on the ground.  She paused mid-murmur and glanced up in worry, that motherly gaze.

            “Mother, I do not believe in your god.”

I have not called her Mother before or since, always momma, always momma. In my hands I took a soft heart and broke it with only simple words.  She sat, broken, on the floor, her knees tasting ground. 

There is no place for me to go besides my mother’s home, my mother’s floor.  I am my mother’s son.  Down the hallway, past my mother’s door, lies my room and my bed and my prayer place.  I have prayed for peace, for glory, for relief, and I have been ignored.  Oh god of my mother, I can feel you, I can see your work.  You exist, but you have failed me. 

I sit on my bed and look at the ceiling until its darkness rushes upon me and I sleep. 

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