A Mother’s Story

by Carlene Cross

Liv Fun: Vol 1 – Issue 3

It has been more than three years since the death of my son. I have recovered from the shock, the months when disbelief muddled reality, when nightmares of his voice calling “Mom” drew me out of sweat-drenched sheets. I have crossed back over a border of sorts, returning from some distant place. I can feel true happiness again, an emotion I was sure would forever elude me. And even on the rare days when I hear the resonance of his laughter and smell the air of his childhood over my shoulder, panic no longer seizes my stomach.

My return was not an automatic process. For me, the journey to health and forgiveness was a choice.

For many months, I felt my anger was justified and wrapped it around my shoulders for comfort like a Shetland blanket. I believed that the United States Army had squandered my son’s bravery and his life. Jason had been part of the small elite paratrooper platoon Chosen Company. On July 9, 2008, they were sent into the remote village of Wanat in the harsh Waygal Valley of Afghanistan over the protests of Intelligence officers warning that hundreds of Taliban were waiting in ambush. They arrived with inadequate supplies, no air support and no cover. On the third morning, at 4:20 a.m., the Taliban attacked.

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Liv Fun

by Leisure Care
Autumn 2012
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A Mother’s Story? 
by Carlene Cross

It has been more than three years since the death of my son. I have recovered from the shock, the months when disbelief muddled reality, when nightmares of his voice calling “Mom” drew me out of sweat-drenched sheets.
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Delinquently Damned
by Jeff Wozer

I just Googled “how to forgive” and received 81,100,000 results. To put this into perspective, a “Rolling Stones” search only produced 31,700,000 results. I used the Rolling Stones for comparison, because I cannot forgive them for not performing a 50^th anniversary tour this year. Jerks. 
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No Regrets, No Wisdom
by Skye Moody

Mabel is yakking my ear off, spinning her life story in a nutshell the size of New Jersey. She pauses to pontificate, “I regret nothing.” I’ve got plenty of regrets, and keep them to myself, but my brain starts ticking them off, the latest being my regret at coming out to greet the new neighbor over the back fence.
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