Sydney
1/1
Every single weekday, I walk downstairs and find my mother, Sydney, standing in the kitchen. She always has on her tattered grease stained white apron, over her silk pajamas, with an old pink scarf tied around her thinning hair.
“Mom,” I say with a deep breath, like I do every morning “you should still be in bed. It’s like 6:30 in the morning.”
“I’m aware. I wanted to cook my baby girl breakfast before she goes off to school,” she says as she slides two crooked heart shaped pancakes onto a plate and hands it to me.
“Thanks, Mom.” She pats me my head, like she did when I was seven and tells me to eat up before I miss my school bus.
When I sit at the kitchen table, I hear pill bottles rattling, followed by a heavy gulp. I look over at my mom, she grips the countertop.
“Cancer sucks,” I hear her grumble.
A few seconds later, she comes to sit opposite of me at the table. She thumbs slowly through an old Jane Austen novel that she’s had since she was in college. It’s one of her favorite books. She reads every single day.
“Ya know, it’s good to have a routine. You have to actually stick to it though. That way, if something ever happens, if you get sick or anything, it won’t be hard to do everyday things. It’ll be like second nature. And if some big issues come around, then ya won’t be so stressed out, because your mind will be clearer, ‘cause you’ll already have dealt with your little chores.”
Mom told me that two years ago. Only a few months before she found out she had cancer. Never once has she changed her everyday routine. It’s kind of insane. I don’t think I’d have the patience or strength to stick to a schedule like that, especially not with such a burden as cancer on my hands.
“Mom,” I say with a deep breath, like I do every morning “you should still be in bed. It’s like 6:30 in the morning.”
“I’m aware. I wanted to cook my baby girl breakfast before she goes off to school,” she says as she slides two crooked heart shaped pancakes onto a plate and hands it to me.
“Thanks, Mom.” She pats me my head, like she did when I was seven and tells me to eat up before I miss my school bus.
When I sit at the kitchen table, I hear pill bottles rattling, followed by a heavy gulp. I look over at my mom, she grips the countertop.
“Cancer sucks,” I hear her grumble.
A few seconds later, she comes to sit opposite of me at the table. She thumbs slowly through an old Jane Austen novel that she’s had since she was in college. It’s one of her favorite books. She reads every single day.
“Ya know, it’s good to have a routine. You have to actually stick to it though. That way, if something ever happens, if you get sick or anything, it won’t be hard to do everyday things. It’ll be like second nature. And if some big issues come around, then ya won’t be so stressed out, because your mind will be clearer, ‘cause you’ll already have dealt with your little chores.”
Mom told me that two years ago. Only a few months before she found out she had cancer. Never once has she changed her everyday routine. It’s kind of insane. I don’t think I’d have the patience or strength to stick to a schedule like that, especially not with such a burden as cancer on my hands.
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Uh, I wrote this for my creative writing class a while back.