A ghost with living lungs, you are. But your lungs, they cough and wheeze. How many more menthol ciggies will you inhale before I’m free from the sound of your suffocation? Supposing your choking won’t haunt me.
A ghost with a functioning liver. Why are you still standing, but Aunt Denise isn’t?
You fucking alcoholics…
Mom, I’ve tried to help you. You’re killing yourself slowly. You don’t want help.
I know you want you to be cremated. You don’t want to be buried in darkness, lonely in the dirt. So, I’ll take you for a drive, and drop parts of you off in Tawas. The rest of your bits will be kept by Tara and me–maybe in fancy necklaces we will wear religiously. We do love you, despite everything.
My mother dearest, you’ll be burned before you ever lose your mind, I’m sure–my sister and I will never have to worry about taking care of you, or putting you in an ‘old folks home.’ Your lungs will quit, or your liver. Or you’ll finally fatally crash–hopefully without taking out anyone else.
Every time I see you, you break my heart, because the woman I see is a walking, talking corpse.
Every meal we cook together is a funeral luncheon.