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You Ain't Nothin But A Breeze

My mother and I have never been close.

For a little over a month she shambled around the house in a hospital gown. It was the only thing she was comfortable in because they still had tubes coming out of her from the hospital. Thick plastic making a nuisance of itself. Making her look like a very poor cyborg. Tubes that drain. Probably so that her body doesn't poison itself while trying to heal. Bodies can become angry. Bodies hold grudges against being tampered with. Bodies self-harm.

She couldn't shower for the month so she complained, calmly, quietly, much less that she should be allowed, about how it bothered her that she could not wash her hair. That was the worst part. She would find ways to make her body feel a little cleaner, but there was no way to wash her hair. She couldn't move her body over the sink. She couldn't get the angry tubes wet. Her doctor recommended dry shampoo, but that would only have aggravated the situation with the build-up.

She couldn't…

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