8:36 a.m.
March 6, 2001
Missed school.
Looking back, I can remember feeling it was my mistake for sleeping in.
Mom collapsed an hour and a half before, wanting my father’s eyes to meet hers one last time.
Cheryl was able to fend it off for a few years until eventually it disappeared around the time I was 5 or 6.
With technology of the day coupled with her faith, this was a true good and divine
miracle.
There was gloating celebration from the doctors, the family, the church and the Gilda’s Club, which is an informal carcinogenically-struck persons-based organization started in a Saturday Night Liver’s memory.
But the fucked up thing about cancer is that if you don’t completely decimate all the affected cells in the body, relapse often occurs.
Cancer doesn’t give a shit about you or your family.
So I awoke this morning and panicked that I had overslept for school since Dad was always riding me about rolling over after he had woken me up the first time.
I swung from guilt to a broken state when I was told, “She’s gone, son.”
It was the first day of the rest of my life. I wish I could have waited.
Missed another few days.
My teachers from all years visited me at the house. My friends avoided me.
I sat on the couch in our front room throughout the day, greeting the well-wishers with my mouth staring at the floor.
Alone.
I cried at the thought of feeling so alone.
The funeral home was occupied in all 14 or 12 corners.
The procession carried bagpipes.
I had a suit, and my cub scouters had their uniforms.
Her body lowered; I considered joining her.
Mom’s plot is on a hill, and maybe it’s just me, but the sky is always cloudy behind it.
