Like her spring-cut roses mother finally tired— of being dwarfed in a king-sized with only radio companions and fear of silent phones— her spirit doused, salty, flowing through tears I almost cried. Which is the genetic trait: she almost died, I nearly cried?
As a flashed sneer (like a mugger's blade in sodium's dirty light) I feel the trespass of pain long held inside— memories of mother's attempt at suicide.
Long carving knife with blade burnished as a saber was one of her tools. Worn handle of wood oiled by daily embrace reminded me of Father Mclnery's neck-draped crucifix.
Just 4 years old I'd grabbed that knife waved it at her like the wooden swords of my play to announce, "Mommy I'm going to kill you." And she, "Now what would you want to do that for?"
Razored blade glinting in her familiar grip (decades later at
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