I Burped My Mother Today

I remember tracing my fingers over the flowers on my mother's quilt, surrounded by the silence of the sad little room lit only by the fiery gossip from the dining table. All the more I remember that I'm but an alien in this house where my mother is staying. I haven't ever stayed longer than three days, but now I'm expected to be here for upwards of ten.
My fingers kept rubbing together as I tried to distract myself in my not-aunt's (In which case I just call her aunt, and on the blog, Naunt.) GMC as we neared Swedish Hospital. I talked my chapped lips off about the boys who I am friends with (Whose misadventures will soon surface here!) and how they react to my occasional bout of girlishness.
I didn't know what to expect. I remember when I had surgery around this time last year; I was groggy from anesthetic and had been fed wonderful things. However, I remembered less if my eyes were droopy or if I had a little dry drool on my cheek. I didn't know what someone six-hours-out looked like. In my head, I wondered if my mother would be helpless as a baby. I knew that a friend (Gogrammer, officially) would be watching over her, and in that I have faith. Still, I have found the peaceful silence and fear emanating from every crystal-clean surface to be scarily unnerving. Wouldn't you think the same?
She was there, asking for chapstick and a milkshake (and her Lactaid pills). Her eyes sagged a little and the machine connected to her IV clicked and sounded off. From there, I ordered her dinner and edited her goals for tomorrow to be along the likes of "Mars Landing" and "TARDIS Repairs". A day well done, I'd call it, so long as she'd have been home about eight hours ago. 
I'm in the same place as last night, writing the same old post in the same old position on this raggedy beanbag. Naunt is talking downstairs and I imagine that, albeit the time difference, my grandmother (Oma, officially) is still up. My mother should be home tomorrow, and I ought to go to bed. Goodnight, world. I'll take you to the Market with me next.

I See the Room Where my Mother Will Be

I see the room where my mother will be
Clean and yellow-white
Clean enough to wipe a tear away, as if she'll die on impact.

I see the room where my mother will be
It smells like flowers
Like that in powder to clot the surgical drip as if it will keep her bound.

I see the room where my mother will be
It's as if she'll die there
As if she'll waste away.

I hear the room where the gossip will be
I'm sitting on her linens. 
A shrill laugh erupts over Doritos, as if she'll waste away.

I see the room where my mother will be
I'll channel the waste
And without haste
I'll leave let her sleep.