if you still have a mother who you can talk to, please talk to them.
it turns out that mothers die, just like any other human being, and it turns out that the dying process can be long, drawn-out, and full of misery.
it turns out that mothers can have conversations with you that have no internal consistency or even verbal coherency because they are too drugged up to exist properly in human space, because they are more a product of side effects than their own personality, and that the only thing that really makes sense out of the conversation is the words “i love you” and “i miss you”, croaked out between lips that are now cracked and thin, lips that you remember kissing you when you were put to sleep at night, lips that were full and alive and that gave you dreamless, blissful sleep.
so if you still have a mother who you can talk to, fuck, talk to them. don’t leave things unsaid for when they start to die.