I Feel It All

My previously thick skin has been worn down by the traumas we’ve endured.
As if each trip to the doctor brought with it a round of exfoliation
via steel wool.

Only a thin membrane covers me now,
one that is fully permeable to everything in my radius.

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Holding Pattern

We are:
Holding the weight of this diagnosis on our shoulders and our souls,
Holding the doctors and researchers accountable to do their jobs, even and especially in this most complicated case,
Holding our breath that all will go well,
Holding out hope that he will defy statistics,

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It’s Cancer. Again.

We are in an especially heinous type of purgatory at the moment.
We know the cancer is there. We have shiny pictures to prove it.
We don’t yet know how extensive its reach is.
We don’t yet know the plan
How fiery the hell we’re about to walk into will be.

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Friend, I See You

Dear friend whose beloved partner, child, friend, parent is missing today,

YES, I’m sure there are things in your life for which to be merry
AND
you get to say, today, and any other day you want:

THIS IS TERRIBLE. I MISS MY PERSON. NOTHING IS THE SAME WITHOUT THEM.

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Our Cells Remember

Perhaps it has nothing to do with the number on a page,
but instead where the moon is in the sky,
how the planets are aligned,
how much or little daylight we are currently allotted,
that alerts our bodies that
today
is an anniversary
of that occasion.

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A Season of Sweetness

One way to spend this season is to fret that it’s too good to be true,
going around knocking on wood, daring not to say or even think that things are going well, for fear of waking the sleeping giant,
waiting for the shoe to drop,
spending days staring at the sky,
eyes playing tricks, convincing the brain that perhaps a glimmer of a shoelace was seen.

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Friend, I See You This Thanksgiving

I see you thinking about who sat in that chair last year at this time.

I see you watching your beloved with concern about what will happen between now and next Thanksgiving.

I see you being asked how things are, and giving answers that only scratch the surface,

so that this doesn’t go down as the Thanksgiving that you cried in your potatoes and made things awkward.

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Master Piece

It’s as if the sculptor is working backwards, taking a masterpiece and breaking it apart bit by bit, chisel in hand, never seeming to be satisfied with a work of art that was perfect to begin with.

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