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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.
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Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
A Womb around Herself, like Hers once Held me
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.
#cancer
sgholter
Written by
sgholter
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
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