Her body was a rectangle. My eyes, wedges fixed downward. While my nape still works like a rusty joint should, her lower back did nothing to keep her lower body from what it was betraying.
Gravity, it's desperate; bringing her weight down to her lower body.
Waists, no longer round in shape; bum, sagging though big; an area of lose shirt... the only area reminiscent of a backbone's curve.
Everything about her was rigid.
Adapting to stiff chairs, hand-me-downs, to narrow hallways made narrower by fellow passersby, to life situations that seemed determined never to let her leave that ramshackle bungalow.
I see her, she is my mother.
But my head is far too heavy for my shoulders--Gravity, it pulls me down by the lashes. It is unwilling to enter alone into the abyss. I'd exchange places, if there is guarantee I won't also pull my mother down with me.--Gravity screams false promises. All I can do is look at in the eye, with a sorry and a conditional yes, all the while catching glimpses of my mother passing by.
More precisely, her legs trudging like a robot's. If only she lacked the ability to suffer. Yet gravity clings onto us.