Everyone calls my mother by how I call her: mommy . Sweet, dearly Mommy! But mostly, I call her by how she is always right, as she still makes fun of my fire: " Son, pour your blood onto something else "; Sweet Mother, goodness gracious, Mommy! My mommy loves a husband clothed in reeking patriarchy; regardless, he is a Plath's "Daddy," and my Mommy's love for him is a Shakespeare's until-death-do-us-part. Then he comes home, and she dies every time he speaks. Poor, Mommy ! Is love that delight? I have known love as how it looks like a two-sided coin: with rusting ridges, still I use it to pay the fare, but it is not fair: distance still wrecks. I am far from where they are, I am near my Mommy and we will never meet.
"Comfort mostly lies in the depth of the words written."