I don't know what friday evenings would look like after she's gone.

I felt my throat close up slowly as the night progressed.

only sitting on the sofa, in her living room again, was I finally able to put it into words.

this place she built. with all of her belongings. all the things that emanate this kind of opennes. acceptance. ease.

none of this will stay. I can't replace her for my older sister. for my nephew.

between the pots and the pans. jotting down her recipes. I'm left alone as my sister exclaims I don't talk enough. I don't talk at all.

my hands won't be enough to keep us together mom. why the fuck do you have terminal cancer.

go back