I tossed and turned that night. Even jet lag failed to introduce me to my pillow. My bones, tissues, and skin shook under my quilt. Cold tears slipped down my cheeks and passed my chin where they dipped down my neck and pooled on my chest.
Never again haunted me. As I lay there I buried my head underneath the fabric, refusing to face the Mother's Day ahead.
I couldn't meet the way her skin sagged after her soul and spirit left her tattered bones, her infected tissues, her swollen fat, and her leaking skin. I couldn't forget the color of it: washed out green, tallow, ashen, and limp. I couldn't forget my father back home, alone with a cat who hated him.
My eyes closed to forget.
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