In Praise of Endings

When Mom discovered Dad's jaded eye, she barred the door on maltreatment. When she consented to leave the farm, our last day of hard labor in the cotton fields flaked the dust off our boots. When Dad's drinking got out of hand, she drew a new line in her own gritty sand. His constant discontent gouged tattered holes in Mama's peace. When Daddy died early, her bondage sailed down a river of freedom. In her advanced years, Mom's overworked bones paid tribute in spasms of pain. Death, for her, marked the end of struggle. She said the angels were singing.