she’s breathing, right?

I don’t tell people this.

I’ve never told my loved ones about this moment.

But I’m telling the world in hopes of releasing the shackles on my wrist.

When I was 10, my sister picked me up on a Monday.

How unexpexted, I thought.

I was getting out of school early, yay.

This is all I remember until the hospital.

A familiar place as my mother frequented it for her chest.

Us sisters waited until the call.

In a lovely and quiet room for private use,

A lady with stump broke news that made our hearts plummet.

My sanity went loose.

I watched my body exist and embrace and pace.

My tears kept flowing and she kept going.

I had been hit too many times with a mace.

My mother laid unmoving on that bed, hooked up to tubes and machinery.

I came over to her side and leaned over, never touching.

My instinct of some sort was to check if she was alive.

I saw no movement.

My being stilled and I backed away, scrambling.

Leaving her room and seeing my father’s and sister’s faces, I thought,

she’s breathing, right?

November 11, 2011. 11:21 P.M.