NEW CASTLE —
It's not a perfect world, inside or outside of these prison walls. I'm not a perfect mother, not by a long shot. But when I'm gone, who will know my children as I do? Who will accept them for exactly who and what they are, no matter what that is?
This is one of the few bad things about being a parent. You never stop worrying about your children, and it's a fear that transcends even the fear of death itself. I suppose if I had to pick a prison, this would be the one I would choose. Am I ever getting out of it? Nope. Some prisons are made shabbily, of flotsam and jetsam, and are meant to be escaped. This one? It's made of the cast iron beams of a mother's love and mortared in with impenetrable eternity. There's only one way out, and I've already told death I ain't leavin' yet.
In case you're wondering why I'm being so morbid today, I'm having major surgery the day after tomorrow. Do me a favor and say a little prayer for me, will you? I won't have a blog next Monday, because trust me-- if you think my writing's strange now, you definitely don't want to see what I'd put out while coming out of anesthesia.
If all goes well, I'll see you again soon! And if I don't, let this be the last thing I ever ask of you: Please make the world a kinder, gentler place. Because once I'm gone, you will all be the only parents my children have.