My Mum is Dying

[Quick write: series of stolen journal moments to help me process my mothers cancer diagnosis]

I am in the supermarket, doing normal things,

Wrestling toddlers into tiny seats,

Filling the trolley,

All the fruits, enough fish to sink a ship,

Pastries, meats, box juice,

Things I don’t usually buy, but life is too short, right?

I buy booze, I don’t want to drink

but I’m worried to be without it,

I busy the toddler with snacks,

Yoyo bears and tasks,

Put this back,

Get me that.

I”m doing normal things and the crisps tumble from then shelf

and in a second I crumble and need help,

No one can see, the sea of grief,

Ebbing

I can feel the distance between muscle, bone, tissue sinew,

And their connections,

The invisible string,

That makes my body part hers,

Feel our hearts beating together,

The soft womb,

My new invisible strings are being tugged,

A finger in my pocket,

“Cuggle”

The four year old bursts into tears because on this yes day,

I say no just once

and I want to shout, but also scream and cry,

Why is no one helping me?

“My Mum is dying”

It is an alarm, an internal panic,

I have to contain so as not to frighten the children,

Make them worry about Nanny, Mummy,

Themselves.

Already obsessed with mortality,

I am shielding them as long as I can,

I cry behind the normal things,

Steal some tears when I put the shopping away,

When I hang the sheets on an unseasonably sunny day,

“My Mum is dying”

I want to scream at the sky,

Although I’m grateful for some ease,

Making the normal things less hard,

Reminding me life goes on,

Beauty awaits.

The four year old wants some blossom,

The toddler wants to blow a dandelion,

Enjoy them before they go I say,

Draw pictures, take photos, write about them,

Study them,

because nothing lasts forever

My Mum is dying.