That was the year my mother had died. Cancer had developed from her ovaries, spread to her guts and finally to her lungs where it drowned her in water.
I was only ten at the time. I didn’t understand why my own mother wasn’t able to pick me up, why her back started to curve greatly and why her stomach became bloated in unusual places or why her once chubby cheeks suddenly followed along with her eyes and took with it her smile. I don’t remember all of the details, every dent I could see when she slouched and she slouched a lot and often. There is no evidence in the house of the disease she brought with her. Dad told me I only asked questions about why my mother couldn’t speak to me anymore and eventually, why she wouldn’t wake up.