|
2001-05-14 || 5:06 p.m. || my aunt. offered these dimples like a bouquet of flowers. || my auntie. the auntie who gave me these dimples. has cancer again. she had breast cancer, a mastectomy, a blonde wig, and got over it. jumped right back into her pre-cancer gold lame(accent mark over the e) shoes. but it has come back. and now it's in her breast, her liver, her kidneys. my mum spent mother's day at grammy's house, trying to get hard evidence. the nurse needs hard evidence. not stories about the motor home or what nice letters jenny writes or the condo in lake tahoe or the trip to the city of hope to find a magic code word that will make the cancer dissolve away. metastasis. chemotherapy. words that taste like metal when you say them. those words, the evidence, the concrete facts were pushed from the dining table in favor of mashed potatoes and the jello-marshmallow-coconut salad my grandmother insists on making. tough meat slathered in sauce. dinner rolls. mum says auntie lay around a lot, moved to a spot on the couch after everyone was finished eating. she listened, mum says. she hurt, mum says. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |