I missed almost every deadline to pack my catatonic mother's house to then ail my notwithstanding hemorrhoids that ruptured after the process was over, all those boxes and the black trashbags filled halfway. And still, all the sorrow kept sleeping in my mother's chest. She has told me that when I was born, she was too depressed to hold me and "eventually" became "later", and I never drank from her breast. yes, I missed almost every deadline, but not my appointment with life; I took my mother's hand and tried to make her laugh. eventually, she did hold me. And when I was five she hugged me and whispered "I am going to tell you I love you because my mother never told me she loved me" I accepted that some of us are more tender than others and that the span of my mother's palm is my lot to care for; and that my body is more fragile than others and so the blood ran red as everything that was came to rupture