I'm Sorry, Momma

With misty eyes set against rosacea-kissed cheeks, breath brisk, chest depressed, frame slight--my mother exhaled fears of impermanence in the only moment of vulnerability witnessed during her month-long battle with colon-cancer: "I'm so scared of what's to come."

She wept, I froze--with roles reversed, with womb withering, with the clear severing of the mother archetype imminent, I failed to approximate any role other than scared child. Until the last interaction, I drunk deep the nurturing gaze; battled blindly to uphold hallowed habituations. When the chance to give of self opportuned, to return the love gifted, to provide the warm embrace rather than hoard, I fell into habituated states, familiar narratives; my last chance to provide solace slipped away as quickly as an uncared-for orchid. Where is forgiveness found in such deeds?