THIS PLANE WILL TAKE ME TO CHICAGO, O’HARE

There is a sort of amputation which happens when you lose a mother. Perhaps it is what having one’s umbilical cord slashed from one’s body must feel like. To need a source so direly one immediately latches onto the first piece of body one can find. Thus, it qualifies as the worst moment of life on one’s first day of life. How is that for tenure?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” you think, “this may be less than optimal.”

So comes a day when your mother wakes you after many years and brings it to your attention and quite matter-of-factly no less, “I must amputate myself from life.”

Not willingly of course, but alas, she is the sort of mother who has agreed to go forth with willingness. You knew this when you signed up. Because one such mother does so as a martyr. Even when there is no certain glory in fighting a cancer that is known to revel in having the last word.

“With grace,” she says.

“Do not ask for more. Time,” she says.

There is shame in wanting — more — one or too many have been haphazardly led to believe.

The kicker is you will never truly know if she was one of the led or if she was a bonafide, tried and true, pure bred martyr. The latter makes you nervous. You’ve already given up an umbilical cord. What more will this world ask of you based solely on genetics?

But this wasn’t a lottery. You signed up for this.

You will watch your mother look out the big window as she leans toward her departure. The leaves dance for her.

“What luck,” one might gather.

There is a point to which you will look no more.

Rigor mortis sets in as you catch the clock, half past five. The day has started, work is just begun.

“And so it is,” crumbs of cookie flaking from your mouth.