What We Carry

Mara stood on the balcony of her mother's condo in Miami, watching the storm roll in. The **lightning** cracked across the sky in jagged white veins, illuminating the **palm** trees that bent and swayed like nervous dancers. Behind her, in the kitchen, her mother lay in the hospital bed they'd moved there last week—her body reduced to something that barely resembled the woman who had once hiked the Andes, who had taught Mara how to peel a **papaya** without cutting herself, who had pressed a cold compress to Mara's forehead when she'd cried over her first heartbreak.

Now her mother was the **zombie**, her eyes glassy and distant, her hands curled into claws that had once held paintbrushes and steering wheels and Mara's own small fingers. The cancer had eaten her from the inside out, leaving a hollow shell that still somehow breathed.

The hospice nurse had left an hour ago. "It could be tonight," she'd said. "It could be next week. You just have to **bear** it."

Bear it. As if grief were something you could simply shoulder and carry like an oversized purse.

Mara's phone buzzed on the railing. David, her ex, again. He'd been texting her since he'd heard about her mother, as if his abandonment three years ago had never happened, as if he could now play the concerned friend. She'd told him she needed space. He didn't understand what space meant.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and something sweet and rotting—maybe fallen fruit, maybe the papaya sitting on the counter, already turning brown at the edges. Her mother had bought it yesterday, before she'd stopped eating entirely. "For when you visit," she'd said, her voice already thin, strained. "Your favorite."

Lightning flashed again, closer this time. The thunder followed almost immediately, shaking the balcony beneath Mara's bare feet. She gripped the railing until her knuckles turned white.

Behind her, a soft moan.

Mara turned and went inside. Her mother's eyes were open, focused on nothing in particular. Her mouth worked silently, forming words that wouldn't come.

"I'm here," Mara said, taking her mother's hand—her palm still soft, still warm, still familiar. "I'm here, Mom."

Her mother's gaze shifted, found her face. For a moment, clarity returned.

"Papaya," she whispered.

Tears blurred Mara's vision. "Tomorrow," she said. "We'll have it tomorrow."

Her mother smiled, just slightly, and closed her eyes.

Outside, the storm broke.