Sadly, my Mom isn't with us anymore, but I will always remember her for so many different reasons. I remember when my older brother was a young child (I being old enough to remember this and he being 3 years older than me). Our Mom was giving him the 'what for' when he said to her, "I hate you." I thought Heaven and Earth were going to explode in an angry tirade (actually, my Mom). There was a tiny moment of silence. Then in the softest voice she responded, "But I love you."

I must have been 5 or 6 when this happened, but I will never forget it. I thought Mom was going to knock my brother across the room and scream some obscenity at him. But all she said was, "But I love you".

Once when I was 14, I had awakened from a bad dream. Mom came in to see if I was alright. I told her what happened. Now, at 14 the world is changing and things are crazy all the time. A young teenager can get the feeling that her parents are monsters because one won't talk to her much and the other just gets on her case all the time. But in that moment after I told my Mom I had a bad dream, she put her arms around me, pulled me up onto her lap (no small thing then) and rocked me like a baby. I cannot describe the shear feeling of shock and comfort I felt all rolled into one.

When I married at 19 and went to live with my husband in a strange town away from my family, I talked about my family now and then. Or so I thought. One day while relating some story, I stopped for a breath or maybe the story was finished. My husband looked at me and asked, "Why do you talk about your Mother all the time?" I thought to myself, "I don't". But he was right. I guess I just loved her so much.

Now my own boys are grown. Well, 2 of them. My Christopher died at the age of 20. That was soon to be 15 years ago. Last night my youngest son came to visit. I want to do everything for him. He appears to be amazed at this at times. But I love him. And his brothers, too. I want all my boys to feel the love I have for them the way I felt my own Mother's love.

And even though Chris has been gone for such a long time, I get horribly weepy this time of the year. You see, he was born on August 7, 1973. So in about 8 more days it be the day of his birth. He would have been 35 years old. His own son turned 15 this year. But Chris will never get to see him grow up.

I remember the day after Chris was born. The nurse would not bring him to me. She kept putting me off with excuses. Then the other woman in the room was given her baby, but when I asked about mine, another excuse. The morning was getting late. My husband came to visit. I told him the nurse was refusing to bring me my baby. By that time I thought he must have died. Suddenly a nurse comes in with a baby and hands him to me. Now, this is the point where most parents say they counted fingers and toes. Not me. I was so happy my little boy was alive I didn't care if his arms and legs were missing. (They weren't.)

Two days later, we brought our new little boy home. Back then I was scared to death about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. This was always on my mind because five infant male cousins of mine (in the same family-now that I think of it, it could have been murder) died when I was just a kid. They were all ruled as crib death, which was the term used in the 50's and 60's.

So I watched my little boy day and night always checking to see if he was breathing. He was conceived at a time when I thought I was unable to have children. Which added to my anxiety. But Crigofer (how he said his own name) made it past the first two years. The next 18 were filled with more anxieties over a multitude of different things. And Chris grew. He was a free child. Emotionally outspoken and hard for others to deal with. But he was my son and I loved him. Sometimes others could not understand that. But I didn't care.

One day when he was 20, he called me on the phone. It was a pleasant conversation and I walked away from it thinking to myself, "He's always going to be here". And for the first time since he had been born, I sighed a sigh of relief thinking I didn't have to worry any more about loosing him to death.

Two weeks later, he was murdered.

Fifteen years later, I still grieve for him even though I will see him again in the resurrection on this "Earth turned Paradise" promised by Jesus Christ in God's word, the Bible. Why? Because it isn't like he's gone somewhere and I can call him to hear his voice. No matter how much I may wish it to be so, he will never knock on my front door again. I will never feel his arms wrapped around me and hear his voice in my ear saying, "I love you, Mom". I will not see his silly grin or hear his playful laugh.

I still grieve because I miss him terribly, terribly...

And I miss his brother, Cameron, who 10 years ago, turned away from me. In so many words he said to me, "I hate you." But if I ever get the chance before I die, I will put my arms around him and softly say, "But I love you."