Long time. Gone.
It is a warm and windy day, sunny and green. The wire grass in the yard is knee high, and twenty or thirty different butterflies are flitting across the tips of the late summer wild flowers that have mixed themselves sweetly into the storybook blades. The sky is blue, a bright blue, and dotted across with cottony clouds, these brought in quickly with the storms from the south sea. It's a fairy-tale kind of day, a go to the creek kind of day, a read books and eat ice cream with your kids kind of day. It's a big cliche, for all the right reasons, the kind of day described by a thousand writers of a thousand happy chapters, with a thousand happy words.
It is not the kind of day you begin to think about your mother dying.
Except it is.
Today is the day I began to think about my mother dying.
There are a thousand happy, encouraging, look-on-the-bright-side, stay positive kind of cliches to go along with this cliche of a day, the day you hear the word cancer.
But my heart is not at that stop yet.
And today, as the wind blows warm around me, I feel cold and sad, my heart cold and sorrowful at what awaits.
All that awaits my poor, dear, mama.
It is not the kind of day you begin to think about your mother dying.
Except it is.
Today is the day I began to think about my mother dying.
There are a thousand happy, encouraging, look-on-the-bright-side, stay positive kind of cliches to go along with this cliche of a day, the day you hear the word cancer.
But my heart is not at that stop yet.
And today, as the wind blows warm around me, I feel cold and sad, my heart cold and sorrowful at what awaits.
All that awaits my poor, dear, mama.
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