With the strand of hair hanging from
my mouth, holding onto the piece of
bread I just chewed. I think of
when mother would wrap her
hair in a scarf each morning. Still, her red
velvet hair would always make it into my
greek salad. It happened so often
that she would ask me to check before
I left for school.
But no matter how thoroughly
I searched through
the lettuce and feta cheese, I would not find
a single hair. Not until I was at school and
had already ingested half a strand of
her hair before slowly sliding it
out of my mouth. Still, she refused to let me
make my own lunch. It gave her a
reason to wake up each morning, to do
something useful. She desired the feeling
of being needed. That even though she was
sick, she could still follow through with
her routine. It reminded her of what
life was like before her muscle weakness
and gradual hair loss.
It came in waves.
First the shivering. Then
scrubbing her back when she needed a bath.
Then the hair loss.
The chemo continued to
weaken her. She would creep around the
house with three layers of every
piece of clothing on. Wrapped in her
soft warm blanket. Step by step until
she made it to the kitchen. Now, this sandwich.
Thrown together by some highschool student
trying to make some money working at
the shitty expensive cafe on campus.
I despise the comfort of knowing
I won’t have a piece of her
for lunch today.