I will not forget what I was wearing the night you told me my mother had cancer. I will not forget the white dress I wore for good luck. I will not forget the blue Colombian shoes I wore for security. I will not forget the gambler’s earrings I wore for luck. I will not forget your face, your eyes watching me for a reaction. I will not forget the coldness in my stomach, hearing how calmly I questioned you about how you knew and where the cancer was. I will not forget that the first image that I had was of the thing bursting from that man’s chest in the Alien movie and thinking of the cancer that way. Inside, eating/eating/eating at my mother. I will not forget the cancer is inside her where I was inside her. I will not forget it. I will not forget calling her and both of us in pain, but talking about other things, pretending we weren’t talking about love only. Only love. I will not forget what I was wearing. I will not forget trying to find the way out of that building at Georgia State. I will not forget reading that night, my mouth so dry. I will not forget what I was wearing.