Inheriting My Mother’s Body
Twenty years after the not-cancer, my mother died of cancer. Maybe that’s why when they tell me it’s a fibroid I’m so afraid.
my cancerMy cancermy babyMy fibroidWhat’s the difference, anyway?
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I whisper to my great-grandmother a burden I’d like lifted, one she might take to the next world with her.
I wish I could talk to my mom about the irony that, forty years later, shelves are being ransacked and we are standing in lines to buy bread.