African Queen

Your mother was weary for years, long before you understood. Diabetes. High blood pressure. The words were as innocent as the alphabet magnets on her refrigerator door. She uttered them with the same ease she said “plate” and “milk.” Your childhood was her slow death.

You inherited her awkward bulk and thick waist, her dark, round pancake face, shortness of breath, and disproportionately tiny hands and feet. Sometimes you catch your reflection in the mirror and mistakenly think “Mother.”