My attempt at a one-syallable prose piece

She did not know that one cell would start a sick fight - a blood and flesh war - that would take each bright bit of her life by force. It would be wrenched right from her bones, her veins, her laugh. She could not know as she placed her dad in his fall grave that she would be there soon, too. She would join him in three years and eight months.

She knew the facts. They scared her, but she tried to find hope: a small, red bird perched on the branch of this news. Hope stayed and stayed, but blood and flesh failed. She cried for me, for her song-and-dance son, for the next round of kids she would not get to hold and spoil with toys and tales of Grand Ave. She would still love them, but not from this place.

The walls of her new room were stroked with fake cheer: pink and green hues that said, “You will be fine,” but meant, “You will die here in this sad bed that is not yours.” No more hair, or speech, or pulse. We saved her wig for the wake to cut down on the shock for those who had not seen her in years. Her tongue had dried up in her mouth. Lips cracked and bled, pulled back from gray teeth. She matched them: a gray form on bleached sheets that moaned and could not find peace.

I sat by her bed, all day and night – could not stand to leave her. We held hands all the time. I touched her face, I watched for breath, heard the ghosts of pain seep from her mouth. My skin hurt, flesh tensed by the tilt of death in this room. I slept in bits, curled next to her, thought of what she used to be: a mom with sweet curls for my hands to find and squeeze, a big lap built for more than one, blue eyes in a soft face. She smiled good. She held hands. She saw all sides of me with love. I thought of what I used to be: her small child, pride and joy, blonde girl who played hard with all the boys on the street, and came in full of dirt and grass for a drink and a kiss on the head.

I was right there next to her when she moved on. I saw her thin chest rise and fall one last time. I was there with her when she left, but I was forced by the breath in my lungs to stay and try my best. She was still so young, but her skin was cold now - just like that. I did not know this would be true so soon. I had seen things like this in films, but thought her warmth would stay in her face and hands for a long time. No - I was left to touch this smooth, chilled mask that was not my mom.

I did not have the words for this – still do not – just some wrecked tears. I spoke through them to tell her that I loved her, that I would keep her with me all the time. I prayed for her, too. I still pray for her now, though my bond with god has changed. I am not so sure where he and I stand these days. I hope he does not hate me for it. He is Love, right? He and my mom should do fine, then.