THERE’S GOT TO BE A MORNING AFTER.
You must have heard that song way back in the 1970s by
Maureen McGovern. It sums up how I feel, how I keep poking myself into believing,
that there’s GOT to be a morning after from this nightmare called life.
I think about what seems to be a pandemic in the Coronavirus,
the plague that occupies the White House with 48 brain-dead US Senators in the
Trump side of the Republican Party, and my continuous struggle for the past few
years with my daughter. Broken legs, broken hips, cancer, pneumonia and
infections that continue as she slowly fades away.
I sit in the morning with her all alone, she sleeps and
refuses to eat or drink. Every effort to feed or make her drink is met with resistance
and refusal to cooperate. I try to keep her alive and she doesn’t want to help me.
I watch her suddenly go from calmness to withering pain and I sit there
watching it helplessly, I am becoming almost indifferent to it all.
The song by Maureen McGovern is all I have left, there has
to be a morning after, no?
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