I saw my mom for the first time in months. Standing at 5’ 2 she still manages to make me feel small. Her long, dark curls billowing over her tan skin darkens her stoic features. Her small frame and sharp, mature eyes startle me as always. Her cold demeanor melts away as I hear the sweet warmth of her voice drawing me in for a hug. We speak quietly, as if every word is a secret, discussing her 50th birthday approaching right around the corner. We laugh as we move in closer and closer hanging onto each other every word until we bump heads and knock a glass of water off of the table.
Every time I make a mistake it’s as if I am meeting my mother for the first time all over again. We get quiet, as silence is her favorite punishment, and continue eating our meal. The air gets colder as I watch her eyes harden and her thin frame seems to grow tenfold and I feel like a child again. For the first time in months I think about how similar my mother and I truly are.
The moment passes and as we speak I can hear the pain resting comfortably on her tongue, lacing her words. We sit in silence and I watch her fiddle with her slender hands, I pretend not to notice the yellowing of her nails as she shoves her hands into her lap out of embarrassment. Impulsively she runs her hand through her long, silky hair. Methodically hiding the chunks in her palms, again I pretend not to notice.
As we depart I think of all the secrets my mother holds on to, I think of the day she will tell me she is sick. I wonder if she knows that I know, until then I will pretend not to notice.
The C word 