Writing Practice for Rhoda Jane

Grief is a howling hollow echoing in my belly.
Unlike depression which is just an empty hole.
It’s my mother telling me her stories of sorrows, loss and longing,
by the glow of her cigarette and the dim light of late night TV,
as she lies on the couch, me on the floor next to her,
because she’s too scared to sleep in her room alone.
While my dad’s in Vietnam,
I keep her company.

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