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The Worst Kind of Gone
Ronda Rich
A friend’s mother died recently so I pulled out stationery and set about writing him a note filled with words of compassionate and deep understanding. “There is no worse kind of gone than that of Mama,” I scribbled. I paused, remembering a similar note that I had received from Senator Zell Miller when my own Mama had died. In lovely cursive script, he shared the grief he suffered when his own mother had died – his father passed away when he was six months old so his mama raised him. I had been touchingly overwhelmed by the sensitive words of a tough-Marine-turned-tougher-politician. Even the strongest men are softened to mush at thoughts of mama. My heart wrenched because the Senator had passed away the previous week and I was still sorrowing over that loss.

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