Mal ,'Shindig'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Mother
The hair is stiff; it prickles against my hand as I run it up and down her arm. She’s so still, it’s inhuman. I want to touch her face, kiss her, hug her, tell her one more time that I love her. But I am afraid. Afraid that if my touch wakes her, it won’t be her waking up. Afraid that if I if I touch her, the touches, the caresses will turn into digging. Digging into her skin, her muscle to find her. She’s gone and all I see in front of me is a dead piece of meat.
Oof, Sail. That's a gut punch.
Oh Sail.
Gleep, Sail.
I couldn't touch my father. I didn't want to feel the cold. Maybe I was afraid he'd twitch. All I knew was that I was utterly willing to throw an absolute fit if someone told me to kiss him good-bye.
I was thinking today that I really wished I had kissed my mother one more time. And this drabble is exactly why I didn't. I knew damn well if I touched her one more time I would never want to let her go. So, fear, it holds us back, but sometimes it's good to be afraid.
How old were you when you lost your mother, Sail? I was 19 when my father died.
She died in 2002, connie, when I was 45. She would have been 83 this month.
Oh, Sail. That one hits hard.
My father would have been 87.
Much ~ma to your friend Deb. Scleroderma is an awful disease.