A Bullet For My Mother

The story poem of how I lost my mother in the ghetto of my youth, The Westside.

In the procession of youth, one can never know when the finality closes on the hopes of each forever in the youth, the closing of that door in a quivering venture into realities. The ghettos shed no tears, the bullets no names, and amidst the torrents of gangs, lost in the veil of the lower class, there is an immaculately laced humbling nature,
One that only suffering can conjure, that purity of tested spirits, and a Latino family lies within.
I was 12 in the barrio, amidst a flurry of drive by shootings, the neighborhood glaring with lowriders, fancy paint jobs with Aztec roots firmly imprinted on the hoods, and a rainbow of colors, that which is called the "rag". I had already been used to sleeping on tje floor, the nocturnal nature of the hood held us hostage. The backstage set with nightly shootings as common as dogs barking, Tejano music in the backrounds with the occasional grito that derives of Vincente Fernandez and his mariachi bands.
A week before the fateful night, my family had barbequed and all my Mother's kin had surrounded the picnic table, night in their eyes, beer in their delirium of eachother, the usual carnage of family get togethers. My mother was asked why she hadnt moved away, why she stayed in such a dangerous promenade of disturbing urban surroundings.
Calmly she stood in front of her brothers and sisters, the smell of the outing fire in the background, it almost seemed to rain somber embers as she stated a prophetic gloom:
"This is home, and I'll take a bullet for any of my kids"
Suddenly, superbly, a glow in my eyes for the woman, that woman,
Only a mother's divinity could blossom such deliverance in a time so violent, the conflict to even stay tore families apart. Proudly, she put her arm around me and I felt as the only child, what I now see as a bitter delight.
A week passed, all was a blur.
We stood in the hallway talking, smiling, as though time stilled and God took a snapshot before childbood was torn away, becoming some distant star. Plumes of white smoke surrounded us, what I now realise was the bullets exit through the sheetrock, though it seemed the clouds had come, that Heaven stepped down to reclaim a spirit. And suddenly as it was, it was no more. Crawling through the hallway as we usually did to count eachother, somehow my mother did not answer. She was in the restroom, God had spared us the reality, or did He?
My father, as if Herculean tore the door from it's hinges, and there upon the floor, the love of his life, now what I realise was the life of his love.He instantly grieved, holding her to his chest, the tears and moans of sorrow filling the ears of a child forever haunted. He gathers himself, looks at his three daughters and his son staring and groaning. He tells to grab her feet, to help him carry her body. This body that held my mother, now lifeless, slipping upon the blood, barefoot I carried her. We lay her on a bed, a man holds his woman, he tells her he loves her, he closes her eyes and puts the blanket over her face.
If this is not love between man and woman, I have never seen it before.
And so it was, the night a littleboy poet's mother died, the little boy poets died with her too. Rarely in this life does one prophesy and it carries over to the call of God. A bullet for my mother, she died for her kids.

I am Ded inside.
I am DedPoet.

Author's Note

True story.

Reviews

[BBP]

Thanks for sharing. If we can translate our pain in to writing,,,,what the f*ck else is if for right? Thanks again I appreciated reading it.

[BlueZan]

Oh my goodness...this is beautifully written and so incredibly heartbreaking... I can't imagine the pain you must have endured but I appreciate that you share it to inspire us. Just...incredible.

[Coyote Poetry]

A very sad story. I'm sorry for your lost. I was born and raised in Detroit. I'm last boy standing out of six. All brothers died before 25 birthday. I got lucky and joined the service. Your story is true for many. Too much death in the darkness of the city. Thank you for sharing your story.
Coyote