“My driver’s license expires this year, and so will I.”
My mother’s black observation chilled the air as I struggled to respond.
The doctor gave her nine-months which struck me as a macabre, reverse gestation.
I don’t remember what I said.
Perhaps a platitude, deflection? Or fierce rebuttal? Philosophical axiom?
I can’t remember.
But her words lodged in my mind, like a fly in molasses.
I haunted our home, a sleep-deprived zombie, not unlike a new mother. Night descended and with it, fresh fear and anxiety. The oxygen machine murmured meditations as my tea went cold.
I slept with her. Fought nocturnal monsters. Stood sentinel until dawn crept into crevices.
Finally, she slept. I washed her feet which felt symbolic.
Her last words … “Where are my shoes?”
“Where are you going?” I replied.
But I knew.