Hope Atlas | Longing for a Mom

I hold her frail,
bony hand;
stroke her stringy,
blonde hair.

She whispers, pleads,
Don’t leave me.

Closing my eyes
as tears form,
I can see
the powerful,
addictive
white powder
that brought us here.

I feel her tremors,
her anger.
My ten-year-old body
lies next to her,
crying without noise,
waiting for her to sleep.

Now her bed—
cradling her body
bumping against the metal rail—
has no room for me.

Years ago, clutching my college diploma,
I promised myself
I’d never again visit my mother.

Yet here I stand.

Since the age of fifteen, Hope Atlas has been putting pen to paper. Writing is her lifeline and her voice. She writes her story through poetry, quotes, and memoirs. When she’s not up late at night engrossed in her writing, you might find her knitting her signature multicolored twist scarves.

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