Mother’s Day

It’s Mother’s Day once again and time for my annual Guilt Trip. Throughout the whole of my childhood, early adulthood and right on up to her death I’d always missed the opportunity to celebrate and thank my mother on Mother’s Day. I’d been perennially remiss, absent-minded, negligent, a-day-late-and-a-dollar-short, or any other epithets you may throw at me for my failure the meet the deadline for so much as a bouquet of flowers on Mother’s Day.

But it was not totally for want of trying however. Once when I was but seven years old and prodded on by a little friend, I purchased a wrist corsage for my mother as her Mother’s Day gift. It was a pretty blue and white orchid bound with a wide ribbon and packaged in a clear cellulose acetate box.

At the end of a long and exciting day of running about downtown I walked in the door and suddenly realized I’d left my Mother’s Day gift on the bus. The memory is burned into my soul.

Woe is me! I’m a rotter! I am a selfish, negligent and ungrateful son! I’m going to Hell – I, I just know it! Oh Mother! Dear Mother! I am so, so sorry!

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About The Twentieth Man

Age 67
This entry was posted in Personal History, Plain English, Short Stories and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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