As I stood there, a thin tear fell from my dour, young face, hitting the fresh grave. London, the city of fashion and art, hid the woman that meant so much to me. My mother lay six foot under the ground, and I, as always was helpless to save her.
I gently laid an orchid on her grave. Wanting to touch her one more time, I pushed my hands into the freshly woven dirt. With clasped hands, I thrust my thumb across her palm, whispering, “No more pain.” She has left; the cancer is now in me.
