I've always loved to make her laugh.
She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.
First call from the hospital;
The worst one I've ever made.
"I'm sorry. Yes, it's cancer."
Hearing a mother's worst
Fear grip her throat with the
Force of a crocodile's jaws around
The neck of something
Unsuspecting.
She does what mothers do: Finds
Strength within the heart of
Complete devastation.
Clears her throat and tries to
Speak,
But the sounds she makes are
Fingernails on
A blackboard to a sympathetic son.
I am not the victim here.
I am merely a messenger
Whose life is on the line, bringing
Bad news to the
Undeserving.
"Didn't you put us through
Enough with your nearly failed
Heart surgery a
Decade ago?"
She manages a stab at
Sarcasm, and I
Smile in comfort
At her
Courage.
I smile into my phone.
I smile at the emerald
Lawn around the
Hospital. At the sky, where low,
Dark clouds speed above me
Like angry, little spaceships. I
Smile at the horizon, where
The sun sets behind an
Almost pitch black
Promise of evening rain.
And my mother doesn't shed a
Thousand
Tears. She sheds one.
One single tear, the size of a
Womb around
Herself, like hers once
Held me.
A shield of salt water,
Transparent kevlar of
Maternal self-defence.
Flashbacks from little legs kicking,
A sore back and things swollen,
The battle of her first birth.
"Life's not supposed to
Be boring," I try, and she grasps at
Anything light-
Hearted in desperation,
Letting out a little laugh; not
Forced, but faint.
A slight relief from the
Nightmare.
I've always loved
To make her laugh.
She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.
There are parents who
Take their childrens' good
Health for granted.
I know two that
Never will.
"Have you spoken to your father?"
"I'm going to," and we
Hang up
With our usual I-love-yous.
The wind picks up the fallen
Features of August, whirling
Them against
Bricks and across parking
Lots, and I pause
Before I
Dial.
Swig of cold coffee, button up the
Ridiculous patient-
Shirt they gave me, and
I can't take my eyes
Off of that
Horizon.
That dark, wet deluge approaching,
And it's dad's turn now.
I love to make him laugh.
This time I won't try.
I crush a handful of dead leaves that I
Surrender to the wind
As he picks up and answers with
An unsteady, nervous eagerness.
"Yes, hello?"
"Hi, dad. It's me."
I brush my hand clean on
My pant's leg
And begin with the loving
Determination of
A parent about to rip a
Disney-band aid from the
Bruised knee of an anxious
Toddler.