"Net, what happened?" She doesn't face me when she asks it. She stays looking out the window at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 5.
"You're getting chunky."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"We've gotta get you on a diet. This is getting out of hand."
"I know."
I'm full of remorse, for sure. But there's also a piece of me that picks up a little bit of enthusiasm, a little bit of a lift in spirit, because this is the mom I know. She's not weak, or frail, or soft, or beaten down by cancer like whoever the person was that I saw as soon as I got to baggage claim. what type of element in ap lit is this an example of