Grief

“I wish you wouldn’t cry all over my shoulder like that.”

Marcella lifted her head slowly, so that when she next sniffled it happened right next to her mother’s ear. Even half-deaf, the old woman recoiled at the volume.

“I’m sorry, Ma. It’s just difficult, knowing you’ll be gone.”

“Well I’m still perfectly healthy now!”

Her daughter looked at her with pity.

“Back in my day we didn’t carry on like this until the person was dead,” said Olivia.

“Things change. We know more about how it’s a process these days. I know you feel fine, but your telomeres are decaying at a faster rate now.”

“I don’t need you to explain it to me,” her mother snapped. “I worked as a geneticist for over seventy years. If people want to look at it that way they may as well cry over babies in their cribs, because that’s when it starts.”

Marcella tactfully didn’t mention that her mother had also retired over thirty years ago. Neither did she bring up the fact that she'd never been adept at the emotional side of things. She changed the subject to more innocuous subjects until it was time for her to go pick up her grandkids.

“We’ll stop by on our way home,” she said.

“You’ve brought them over every day this past month. Take them to the park.”

“Nonsense, Ma,” she said as she pulled on her coat. It was a shame her mother had such a hard time with grief.

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This was inspired by Tuesday's #freewrite prompt by @mariannewest: grief.

Image by b0red via pixabay.