My first born

I was coming home from my friend’s camp; it was 5:30 in morning. I stepped out of my dad’s small black Plymouth car, its side orange with rust. The air was almost wet and gray clouds were forming above. As I started my way up the cement steps. I saw a large cardboard sign colored pink with the additions of pink ribbons scattered all over the sign, across it read welcome home!!! I rushed the next three steps and burst through the door, I kicked off my shoes and ran to the family room, and there she was sitting upright in a tall chair, her short frame seemed to fill it up. Her iPad resting on her lap, slowly I picked my head up and looked into her eyes; they hadn’t changed. And then a smile crept across her face, I wanted to run into her arms but knew I couldn’t. “Hi” I said, she replied “hey”. She followed my gaze to the basket next to her; it was over flowing with flowers, cards, stickers, and other breast cancer stuff like key chains and t- shirts. She was hooked up to four drains on her sides flowing with red liquid; I looked away. For the next few minutes we exchange words and she pulled up some pictures of her in the hospital. These pictures reassured me and scared me at the same time. About two minutes later, the thought came to my head: my mom was a survivor.

Ben