And here I am. Sitting at a long Dining room table while, twenty feet away, my chemo-bald mother is lying on a sofa in the weak winter sunshine. She’s poorly. Cancer can do that to you.

It’s true what they say: you never expect your parents to grow old. Right now I’m realising that time is something none of us has a lot of, not even that freak Trump. Billions of dollars give him the edge over my Mother in terms of hair, but he will forever be unable to lay down on a sofa and know in his heart that he’s always tried to do right by those who needed it most. My mother, on the other hand, can.

The journey down here wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. I can thank my prescriber for that. Many meds maketh the man, or something like that. They do in my case. I swear by them.

I’m out of ideas right now. Writing ceased for the time being. The tank is empty, taken up with caring for a sick parent I guess. Too many trips into the past, and horrific glimpses of the future; my Mother’s, my own, yours. The sunlight is on her now, in her dressing gown, sick and weak, lighting up the terrifying truth of how all things come to an end even though you don’t want them to.


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