Mother's Day

There’s a boy. He’s stuck in bed— a giant tumor stuck in his brain, mom stuck by his side. He is sick and swollen. There will be no healing happening here, just so you know. No miraculous recovery. I’m doing what I can to keep him comfortable as his mom watches on, aging exponentially, gray and tired beyond her years. In the evening, the room is tense, brows furrowed, jaws clenched, air heavy. But during the deepest part of the night, it’s different. The boy sleeps soundly in bed, his mom sleeps soundly on the couch, and I stand in the space between. Her mouth blooms into a smile as she slumbers. She giggles like a girl, soft and carefree. The boy answers with a smile, exhales peaceful and easy with a low laugh. This continues, the love and happiness flowing between them like a conversation without words, like an understood embrace, like a breeze, like music, like light. I hold my breath and stay very still, willing some of this goodness to stick to me as it passes through. He died on mother’s day. I hold my breath and stay very still, willing all the goodness of the world for his mother.