Mama?
Whoever I am.
A woman with dark wavy hair sings songs. Magical, as I sing with her. How does she do it?
Hand on my arm. Gentle. It doesn’t go away.
“Mama”
Who is Mama?
There were children who called me Mama. Five… six of them once.
A song again.
“In the sweet by and by, we will meet on that beautiful shore.” They’re quiet as I repeat the line. It calms me.
Tears. The faces staring at me are streaming. Wet.
“Mama, you can go.”
The children. Was I “mama”? Am I?
Breathe.
And sleep.
Rose Alice White
June 1, 2026
Written with loving memories of our mother.
(This piece is in response to the Day 30 prompt from Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium.)
Quite intriguing.
Lovely ...