Your mother isn’t dying, she’s just terminal.
My mother’s just a terminal. I passed through her and traveled to a separate life. My mother’s in a terminal. She’s purchased her last ticket. My mother’s packing bags and leaving me. She’s leaving me mementos so I know she isn’t gone. For good. My mother’s leaving trails of savings stamps to follow through the terminal in hopes I’ll hug her, love her, keep her feet from boarding. I know she’ll disappear. The destination is a place that swallows all we are. I fear this destination, and I want a refund on my ticket. Please.
My mother died from stage 4 cancer on November 1, 2023. This is one of the pieces I wrote before she died.
published in MasticadoresUSA and my book “Cancer Isn’t Just a Constellation,” republished in Short.Sweet.Valuable
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