TIRED, A MOTHER’S DAY POST: Top right pic, that’s Miss Julie’s mom, the only mother-in-law I plan on having. Time took her in 2017 & took Miss Julie’s reason to stop & pick Mother’s Day roadside daisies. Time takes us all, some all at once, & some, once daily until all is taken. That’s where I am with my mom &  there are others at stations on the road of mental or physical decline or at least the muse that’s wrestled me like Jacob since 4:00AM & won’t let sleep regain hold, has persuaded me. It’s to you, the hurting & verging on breaking, that I’m writing, not to advise but to encourage. You’re tired, tired of answering the same question over & over & tired of the stranger adorned in your parent’s skin & bones & clothes & voice. Tired of the imposters, those that have never walked this road, that have never frozen when the phone rings & are free with advice on how you “ought’ to do this or that when they ought to keep their lips sealed unless they’re praying for you, tired of wondering if the last birthday or holiday or this Mother’s Day will be the last time you’ll be remembered. Press through the tired, you’re doing special work, work where the only easy day was yesterday, work that some days you’ll do at suboptimal levels, some days done with fists clenched, raging that another piece has been chipped away, or you said, thought or prayed something unimaginable, some days unloading on your spouse the troubles & not relaying how grateful you are for them or for friends that offer a willing ear for venting or shoulder for crying or sarcasm to readjust your attitude. Some days, you melt like ice in a glass of summer lemonade & all that’s left is a stream of tears like condensation drips down the summer glass. Some days, you’ve just gotta be glad you have your momma & trust God that manna’s gonna fall & you’ll get by. Every day, you gotta do it cause someone’s watching, someone’s in need of a road map & you, regardless of if you want to be or not, are the atlas. So whether you’re on this road or not, spend time with your mom, or as Bear Bryant used to say for AT&T, “call your momma, wish I could call mine”, because time will take her all at once or in pieces…