Sick

I’d cry out for my mom while running to the bathroom
And she’d meet me there with a wet cloth in her hand.
Gently she’d pull my hair back
While I stayed put with my head above the toilet.
I’d puke until I could puke no more,
And the whole time she’d slowly be rubbing my back.
Afterwards she’d hand me the cloth
That she so patiently had been holding
So I could wipe my face before preparing myself for bed
Once again.

I took her for granted,
Always expecting her to be there,
But now I am alone
With no one to comfort me
Through my sickness,
And I wish for those days of my childhood
When she would stand by my side
In the middle of the night.