“Good luck on your first day of school honey!” my mom yelled from the kitchen. Today would have been five years since cancer took her away from me.
Lifting up, up, up off of the crinkly papered bed, she floated aboard the majestic, wooden air ship, where she slow-danced with Prince Charming’s handsome son, wearing a flowing ball gown that sparkled like diamonds in the melting lip-gloss gold sunset that the circus animal crew – elephants and zebras wearing colorful hats and silly shirts – was working to sail into, paddling their oars rhythmically against tufts of cumulonimbus clouds as if silently marking the beat of her dance. This was her favorite place to go whenever Mommy and the doctor started talking about her cancer.
The success of former school bullies sometimes really gets to me.
Then I think “hey, maybe they’ll get cancer and die in horrible pain” and I feel a bit better.