Mama

Written By: Hannah Hu
Graphic By: Izzy Gavin

Papa is dying.
	In the morning he wakes with a crisp cough and a rattle in his lungs. Mama rushes to him in a minute, tilting a cup to his mouth and holding it there until she’s sure he’s drank every last drop. The cup is hideously pink, an oblong ceramic surface filled with polka dots red as the splotches on his skin. 

I made it for him a long time ago. “World’s Best Dad”, it reads. I wonder if he stares at the words while he drinks. I wonder if the poison burns his throat. 

I sit by his side often, wetting a rag in warm water and placing it over his worn down face. His smile lines are fading and in their place is an expression, worn and weary, that makes his eyes watery and his mouth droop. 

When Mama goes, I whisper– spit out what you can, you’re going to be okay, I’ll get you out of here– and watch for the crinkle of his eye that shows he’s listening. Sometimes I lift him by his armpits and try to move him towards the door, but his body is heavy and he makes too much noise. 

When we were both stronger, we’d talk about it sometimes. I’d steal the keys, he’d drive the car. I don’t know where we would go but I imagine it to be like this room: warm, dim, and brown. 

Squeezing his hand in mine, I imagine us, feet set firm on the wooden flooring, shoulders square– maybe the outside will have higher ceilings– and rows and rows of canned food– peas, pears, maybe even beef!– awaiting us…. 


Papa is gone. 

I feel his absence during nights especially, when the blankets are too thin for only one person to warm it. I don’t know when he left, just that when I woke up, he wasn’t there anymore. Mama stays by less and less often. I am growing hungry; I do not tell her. 

Today when I woke to the cup waiting for me. I grab the handle, peer into it. I would know that bittersweet smell anywhere, but I know the savory smell of macaroni and cheese better. It’s a rare day I get to eat it; I raise the cup to my lips. I swallow. 
	

The symptoms are slow at first: small red splotches, a burning in my throat, a sick twist to my stomach. I wake up one day and cough blood into my palm. It’s sticky and warm and it’s only when I wipe it on the blanket that I notice Mama. 
“Mama.” I outstretch my hand. 
She takes it, touches the blood, nods. “Good.” 
“Mama.” I try to take my hand back too late. 
She is using me to stroke her cheek and she is humming a song I recognize from a time when Papa was still here and standing, a fresh bowl of fruit in his hand everyday when he came down with Mama by his side and they were singing and they smiling and she is smiling and she is, and she is, and she is, inevitable. 


She needs to take the trash out. 
Her daughter has skipped school again and she is trying to scold her but the smell is pungent. They both wrinkle their nose. She pauses her lecture to ask, “Did your terrible excuse of a father clog the toilet again?” 
“I don’t like how you talk about him,” her daughter says. “He works really hard for us.”
She pauses, sighs. “You’re right. I’m tired, that’s all.”
Her daughter nods, slips her backpack. “Get some sleep, Mama.” 
“When did you grow so big?” she smiles. 
Her daughter walks up the stairs, through the trapdoor. “Bye, Mama.”
“I love you,” she says. 
But her daughter doesn’t reply; she just keeps on walking, up and up and up….