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Array
(
[sid] => 146475
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => To Mom
[time] => 2008-11-24 18:52:04
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I am the meanest person you know. I am cold and crass, unwavering and immodest, and I force those around me to splinter, shedding shreds of themselves, hard pieces that fall to the floor, and can be seen and commented on. "This is what he took from me." To everyone who knows me like an encyclopedia entry, like anything that can be encompassed by words-- I am a sharp edge. But to everyone who understands me, I am your son. I remember the dining room table felt like cordouroy on my forearms, my habitual slouch preparing itself for the white noise readied at your lips. Cancer. I had only heard the word in church, a hard-knuckled specter instigating a synchronized floor-focus, immediately choking out eye-to-eye contact. Cancer. "Pray for us." has Cancer. "Pray for us." I know those days were tough, bright March days spent in dark, vacuous rooms. Whatever recipe gave you strength to champion your wig or stay conscious from your morning bed to the medicine cabinet, I was an ingredient. I am proud and grateful to have been included. 10 years of remission is a trophy, hard as metal and inscripted-- "Cancer cannot compete with my care." Like any child, I boast of my parents achievements, and hope desperately that I inherit. And to everyone who understands me, I am your son: Outside, a callous, immodest man, but inside, a strong woman. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 162 [topic] => 55 [informant] => nosoup4crr [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => dedicatedpoems )
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