My mama called me
Sissy in a Southern way
to this day, I miss. 

I protested once: 
Mommy, please don’t call me that – 
I spat – I hate it!

In her eyes I saw
She took my words literally 
to heart – like a knife. 

No salve could I find. 
The wound – too deep – persisted
Still pained when she tried. 

My mama called me 
Sissy in a lovely way
I’ll forever miss. 

I honestly don’t believe in regrets, and as I’ve written, it is my practice not to collect them. 

But if there were one moment in my life I could change, it would be this one. The careless, harsh words of my angsty teenage self could not be apologized for. They could be forgiven, but they could never be forgotten.

Perhaps, given another 15 years to work on her, Mom might have been able to call me “Sissy” again without it catching in her throat, half-spoken.

Instead, over a decade after her death, I console myself with my own voice as I call my own daughter “Sissy” nearly every day. 

This is Day 11 of the National Blog Posting Month challenge.