Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, I have an overwhelming wish to go back in time; back to when I was seven. I want to be that little boy climbing onto Mamma’s lap and know what love is. I want to snuggle against her, have the warmth of her body against me, and feel her love surround me. No words. Only love. And every time I make this wish, the tears in my eyes blur the words on the paper. It's okay.
Every time I have this mood and need to revisit Momma, I cry and I know why. The only time I knew love as a child was with Momma. My real mother on the other hand, the one I was forced to live with when I was seven, gave me everything but love: severe physical, emotional, and sexual abuse by her. After six months, I was removed and placed in a child shelter.
It is not so much I learned how to endure severe pain. It is not so much that I coped with long period of being alone. It is not so much that the years of abuse continued. It is not so much that I lost my child’s innocence at seven. Or that by eight, I had already experienced sexual encounters with my mother, one girl, and several boys. It has something to do with that even at 72, I still long to be a seven year-old boy loved by Momma.
When I'm gone, remember only this. “Weep not for me. I am with Momma.”