Today I learned that you will die, mother. Not for that I loved you more. But I have to come to terms with this thing that seems impossible, or very possible. I have to come to terms with my not loving you anymore and not remembering who you were, who we were. When you told me for hours about your eighteen years in Roè. When I was sick and I said “I want mom”. But even when you yelled at me “ugly filthy pig”.
You will die, mother. You have liver metastasis. It will be a matter of little. Your absolute thinness, your protruding bones, your sucked face, distorted by the stroke told me.