It’s been a long time since I posted anything, and each new day without a word on my mother’s condition is a reflection of the recurrent sense of the unknown. That is to say, who the fuck knows. Though I call daily, the conversation finds the well-worn grooves of the previous call. Even my dad, who was elated that I would phone regularly, admits, “What’s left to say?” Have you ever held a conversation with someone who knew 20 or fewer words? How many times can you say hello and goodbye? This is all that I have with my mother and father. Our canvass is always painted with pain, exhaustion, boredom, and fear.
Skype too has become troublesome. In some ways the connection seems to be weak or the laptop left in Los Angeles showcases the inevitable decline of technology. I see her face but she is not my mother.
I read somewhere that a person mourns, on average, for up to six months. News of her cancer was on December 5. My sadness may be precocious.
