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By P. Michael Mastrofrancesco A tumor in your right lung, no bigger than a child’s fist, suffocates you slowly. No more full-throttled breathing, the constant in and out of cigarette smoke, streams of white air you blew into rings upon request; its nicotine-- burn scenting drapes, staining walls, your fingernails. An oxygen tank stands beside your bed; its erratic alarm beeps false alerts, keeps us at the ready. You sleep through conversations with visitors, wake for a feeding, a sip of tea and chip of cracker, never make it to the bathroom without aid, agree to diapers when standing makes you dizzy. Pillow and mattress swallow you whole, only your foot pokes above horizontal. Not too long ago you held me in a headlock, wrestled me to the floor. Gonna give? Gonna give? You stood me back-to-back to see how tall I had grown. Over time your head inched down my vertebrate marking my growth and your shrinking. You hope to reunite with the daughter who died not too long ago, the one you nursed but couldn’t keep alive. You lift your head off the pillow as you exhale, inching your way skyward. I look about the room filled with dozens of family photographs, search for a sewing kit, a needle and thread, some safety pins and wire to sew your nightgown to the mattress, keep you here, do as you taught me, never give up. |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007