She made banana bread when we were little. I think for her it was the same as it was for me, in that way. Hell, in a lot of ways. She made banana bread often and it was a treat; we rarely had as much sugar as all that.

Later she didn’t really do that. I made banana bread, though, and I did it in static. Toasted it up on two sides, and I added spinach salad on the side, and I spread goat cheese coated with vanilla-blueberry mixture on top, and there were nuts inside it.

At the time she was feeling angry. I understand and I understood and I got it, I did. She had cancer. It wasn’t fair.

“What is that?” she snapped. I told her.

Her mouth moved, pursed and twisted. She didn’t have full control over it anymore, in more ways than one. “That’s actually alright,” she said grudgingly.

I hope I can make my kids the banana bread without dying. If I can’t do that, I hope when I get angry it’s with them, not at everything around me.

I have no idea if it’ll be ok. But it could be.