What I Know to Be True
BY KELLY GRACE THOMAS
A gallon of water weighs
8.3 pounds. Seagulls
are always hungry.
My daughter’s name
is Nova. I am a mother.
I’ve lost a mother.
It happened so slow:
she became less and less
as the red of chemo ran
through her blood.
It happened so fast: chosen
by the birth parents a month
after paperwork. The blinkless
doctor saying Stage Four.
Then the moments
that hover—fog over the gray Pacific:
My mother’s hands, liver-spotted
against the pink ocean
of Nova’s newborn skin.
Her voice caught
in the last chorus
of Row, Row, Row
Your Boat. I’m not sure
I’ll ever forgive.
My mother kept a gallon
of water next to her bed.
On good days she practiced
picking it up. One day, she said,
I’ll be strong enough to lift her.
