Child comforting a mother

A lump in my mum’s throat as she tells me

of the lump in my aunt’s breast, the years between

pass across troubled eyes, her mouth struggling

to settle itself, as a delivery van passes.

I implore her to hold onto hope as we hug

and she weeps, sudden explosion of grief

as I feel like the adult, comforting child,

the role-reversal which is dawning on me.

Word is the pre-op’s Tuesday, operation Thursday,

now taking a holiday with my uncle for the weekend

to barren Northumberland to escape Hartlepool,

familiar territory, tarnished by bad news.

I check on my mother before I take the train,

but a broken face stares blankly into the pillow,

the birds twittering beyond the window,

so I dare not speak and close the door.