by Lisa Marie Brodsky
This is not to say
that I have never hated her.
I wiggled away when she tried to
wash my face and then ran into
my bedroom slamming my door.
I cursed at her as an emotional teenager,
I hung up on her as a confused 20-something.
That didnt exactly constitute hate,
but that day in January of 06,
as I stood beside my then-boyfriend,
she calmly said they found a mass on her lung.
I still didnt get it. I thought: danger. But its Mom.
We went to brunch, surreal to gather
eggs benedict and slices of cantaloupe onto my plate.
It was only while I drank my orange juice
that she said the word cancer
and everything soured.
I thought back to her years of smoking,
of me hiding her cigarettes and
her getting so mad at me.
I suddenly could not understand
how she could think she was
so impervious to this disease
and she just shrugged and
it was that shrug, that helplessness
that I hated not really my mother
but the ignorance that kept her
driving toward the broken bridge
and now she is stalled and we wait
to see if she falls.
Posted on 04/04/2006
Copyright © 2022 Lisa Marie Brodsky