Bridget Assi28 September 2019
I shrouded myself in the scent of frosted berries. The autumn breeze drifted into my room as I dressed. It was Mother’s Day. However, as I wore my linen turtleneck and gold earrings, the day felt heavy on my shoulders. In many ways, it was ironic that it was Mother’s Day. My mother’s grief floods through the phone with each call this past year. That morning, she calls me and tells me how she slept next to my Aunty the previous night. She tells me about the groans of pain that were substituted for snores. My Aunty, Amtou, was sick with a rare form of terminal appendix cancer.
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