Put It in a Bottle

The day before my mother died was painfully long. For all of us, especially her. My mom thought putting the cancer in her bottle would make it go away. Instead it made the bottle so hot it popped and the cancer escaped.

When I was really young my mother told me about the bottle. Everyone had a bottle, and it was up to me what I chose to fill it with. I could fill it with love and hate; memories and dates. She made sure to remind me not to overfill the bottle or it would intervine with my fate.

After my mother died my mother became distant. He became irrational; his actions made it clear he wasn’t thinking.

One beautiful day, I laid by the bay and wrote my father a poem. I ran in the house to go and show him; he grabbed my book ripped out the pages and threw out the poem.

After that day, every night I went to bed late after filling my bottle with hate.