Desperate

I remember when I was young, my mom held me in her hands and would sing me lullabies. She would stroke my hair and tell me she loved me. I would gently hold her hands and fall asleep in her arms. Now, I'm 12 and my life is perfect. There's only one thing that hurts me. My mom died when I was only 6. I dream of her every night, calling my name, beckoning me to come forward. When I finally get close enough to touch her soft gentle skin, I wake up. All I can do is sigh and stare at my mothers picture next to my bed. I do miss her. But when I turn 13, I'll see her again. I know it.