Poppy

My mom had been in the hospital bed for a day. She seemed to have calmed somewhat, but it was becoming more difficult to understand her words. Her mouth seemed to be drying up, all of her did, really. I couldn't believe (or accept) that she had stopped eating and was taking in only a few droppers of water throughout the day. I made shakes and mashed bananas, added protein and for awhile, she would take a little, her mouth moving long after the spoonful was gone. In those early days, we could give her water from a straw, she'd vibrate with a long "mmmmmmm." She would look up as though she had just sipped from a Swiss mountain lake, still hopeful, smiling like a little girl. Once following a dose of morphine---when she could still get a few words out, she leaned in as if to tell me what nobody else knew, "I really think I'm going to beat this thing." She had tried to be positive for so long; through two surgeries , through years of chemotherapy and the entire western worlds pharmacological arsenal. "I know you are,"I said holding her hands, affirming her secret. Then simply, matter of factly, with the raise of an eyebrow, "I've got to." She looked determined. I was grateful for Afghanistan, Kashmir...poppies.