Cancer stole my mother
two years ago.
An epic battle of experimental chemo,
pain pills, and sympathetic stares at her bald head
every time we go to the grocery store.
Though she's still here with us,
she is a prisoner of
the couch, her swollen legs not able
to carry her anymore.
I help her use the bathroom,
I pour the cereal every morning.
A bowl of Cocoa Puffs or sometimes
Bran Flakes
to keep her regular.
I am her daughter mother
The roles reversing
as she struggles to breathe
in her sleep.
The room is dark,
so I become an awkward blob
wondering if everything has always
been so terrifyingly loud.
In my spare time, I crochet
as I wait for her to need something,
While my family sits at home
without a wife
without a mother of their own.
Cancer has stolen her
and she has stolen me.
I try not to be angry with her
or with life or with God.
Things just simply are this way
whether I want to drive off a bridge
Or not.
I cling to my yarn, my hope, and my size J crochet hook,
careful that I don't unravel.
YOU ARE READING
So I Don't Unravel: Poetry
PoetryJennifer White's poetry focuses on her own experiences as a wife and mother in rural Idaho. She broaches the topics of relationships, death, and her reflections on life.
