Mortatality only began to haunt me in a way I could see when I was older, when I had someone to care about and I loved my mother again.
Until I was 23, I was at best unaware of the desperate war I’d waged against it: I expected my mom to follow my dad into into it every day, but I was young and I thought everyone knew there parents were already dead.
Now, 26, my back creaks and my uncle lives
with his heart outside his chest.
Calm and composed,
clear as day,
I am staring at death.