My First

My mom is sick. Look both ways at the cross walk and get hit by a truck anyway sick.

I’m scared. Scared to think, scared to feel, scared not to.

My mother is my First.

My first sound was her heartbeat.

My first movement was the sway of her walk.

My first touch was the warmth of her body.

My first.

There is a connection that can’t be severed by time, distance, or independence. A cellular connection, a oneness with the feelings of the other.  It is beyond empathy, beyond thought, beyond explanation.

It is the bond of joint ownership of kidneys and blood. It is the anxiety of separation and the relief of being in the same room together. It is the timing of my breath with hers, the deep inhale listening for rattles, the exhale when nothing is heard.

My brain is rational, digesting facts and figures with keen interest and pleasure. My heart is emotion, big wave after small wave crashing in a tumble of fear and hope. But my cells just know.

She is my only.