The clock started in August.Doc said six months.
She was the handler. Sicilian.Most of her hair still black.
Fifty-nine and on her wayout. Cancer: colon, liver, lung.
Peeled oranges with a paring knife.Our fingers would pinch a slice
before her tip could bite.La prossima volta (Next time).
Winter sound is blue and bellsudden. Shadows are knife blades.
I was her nurse, butt wiper and cook.Still strong enough to hurl a bowl
of parsnips at me-she disagreedwith the size of my chop. Drowning,
my sisters flew in. After New Yearwe wheeled her around the block.
January sun carved her cheeks. Momnever honed a blade to sheath it.
Photo by Lenstravelier on Unsplash