I wasn't born into a designer family. Entered life as another unwanted mouth to feed. Birthed into strife on rundown W. 33rd on Cleveland's near west side where rowdy drunks roar and tawdry pimps hole up. The product of greaser backseat adolescents in the mid-fifties, who got it on without getting diplomas, and when baby daddy went to sow more oats, mom stripped at a local biker's club. Those times were tough for a single mom who couldn't get a government handout She danced for dimes during those lean times for two small boys, and her husband's crimes. providing for her kids made her cry oft times, but we were too much for her to manage; sacrificial, she chose that for her kid's advantage she must let them go to a foster home. & though I was almost four, I can still remember... Her convulsing tears my heart being dismembered my worst night terrors that came that November. Over six decades came and went, I met her again 20 years ago and we've grown as friends but I seldom ask myself about way back when was she right or wrong? And all I can find is a mother's love that waited long.
A Mother’s Love