Rest In Peace, Mom - Part VIII
It was twelve years ago today when I found you dead.
I knew you had died because you were lying lifeless on that hospital bed.
I bought you a card and a toy easter bunny that were buried with you.
If somebody ever says that you meant nothing to me, it won't be true.
When I prayed for your survival, I decided to beg.
You died after the surgeon amputated your leg.
Even though removing your leg improved your chances of survival, you still died.
When the surgeon operated on you, he couldn't save you even though he tried.
Your life ended and you entered the Pearly Gates 12 years ago today.
Rest In Peace, Mom, I wish I could've stopped you from passing away.
[Dedicated to Agnes Greene-Johnson (1948-2013) who passed away on March 6, 2013]
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