Since my mother died almost two months ago, I have something I want to write. I feel that this is a time to move on; one reason I came back to Mexico was to be with her. She had not been feeling that well, even if her stoicism prevented her to show more. Her life was going away. Now that she is dead, less strings keep me here.
The last time I saw her, we both knew that she might have cancer, but neither of us wanted to live with that weight if it was not confirmed by doctors. As it turned out, it was never really confirmed, the casue of death was cancer. Nevertheless I was not thinking that she had cancer, and was going to die. A few hours before she died, my brother told me that very likely she was not going to make it. I was not there with her when she died.
Going back to the last time I saw her, we looked at each other's eyes half knowing that that could be the last time we saw each other; it was.
That is not what I want to write though; it is the preamble.
I feel the presence of death more now. We were close, and she helped making me the way I am. I take risks, like she did.
She married a man that nobody knew in town, and went to live with him in a city where she hardly knew anybody.
She was courageous, and she made me like that.
Now I am planing to leave Mexico again. This time it seems harder. I have to take this part of my life in a new way, which I don't quite know how to do.
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