"There are good days and there are bad days," you would say to me as you would try and explain away why the whiskey bottle was empty again this morning, why you smelled like her and why you thought it was best to let me know what you had done. At least that way, you were absolved of the gift of lying; the one your bones were too light to lift and just couldn't take, by bestowing me with betrayal.
My mother would bring me an encouraging cup of tea in a giant pink mug instead of a cup and explain, "There are good days and there are bad days." Her eyes were always full of positive energy and strength and good will. I look back to those days and try and gain the strength she had in her bones from her words. I always fail.
They told me I had a disease within my bones. It started from the bottom of my knee and was moving upwards. Because that is what bones did. They broke from the inside out. "There will be good days and bad days," they warned me. I knew at that very point that it was going to eat my bones and spit them out once the muscle and strength from them had melted.
There have been good days and bad days, I tell myself as I hold your hand, waiting for the last of the treatments that may save the structure that is holding me together, before it falls apart completely. You ask me if I would like some water. I say yes, a glass, if it would help my bones grow back. It worked for plants. It may work for me, too.
You look at me, puzzled for a few seconds before asking if I am all right.
"Today is a bad day." I say quietly, "I can feel it in my bones."