Abbey Rose

Harsh Truths

When I think about the first thing I remember it’s this. Three years old, on the couch, nestled into the cove of my mother’s chest and listening to her breath. Deep, slow exhausted inhalations earned from one of many night shifts at the nursing home. She always worked in the twilight hours, between multiple nursing jobs, but somehow, was always still around. I honestly believe she had the ability to teleport when the need arose.