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Coffee, tea....?

There's a girl in a blue with white polka dots dress serving tea and coffee behind you. She looks slightly uncomfortable, so determined to stay facing the wall, greeting, shaking hands, smiling.

It's grim. The dress is polyester, fought over and finally selected with a simple sentence.

"Your mother would want this."

The fight left then, wandered down the street to the bar.

Keep busy keep busy keep busy.

She won't venture to the front of the room. She can't. She feels the gaping void she's about to collapse into, struggles to avoid it, sidestep, pull an Indy. Nurse shoed feet teeter...

She can feel the eyes upon her back. She can feel the downglance, the pity slithering out, tentacles reaching for her. It's a trap. There is no freedom in those eyes.

She avoids those too.

She spends the afternoon pouring coffee


greeting friends/not friends, who know not what to say, where to stand; sent by mothers of obligation, they twitch awkwardly in their church clothes, tugging at ties and scuffed shoes.

"she was cool. We'll miss her."

She moves around the room, avoiding arms, hands, moist tissue. She doesn't, she can't see her father or her brother. As of this moment, they don't exist. She feels her own orb, nothing else.

That void presses on her, begins to seduce. She feels eyes guiding her forward.

She glances in, and her world ends.


Blimey, a bit of abstract prose is it?

Lovely description, is this you?


I've been fighting with myself for years on how to write about my mother having cancer, and getting sick and dying and the aftermath, and I think I finally found the form.

It's all I could think about last night.

Is it too vague? It's hard to find the line...

No- not vague. Excellent really!

Great blog,

Keep up the good work.
white tea

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