I dreamt of her again last night. With the intense gaze of Manet’s Olympia, luscious dark hair, and flawless iridescent skin, she lounges with a magnifying grip like a cold steel clamp.
Atwood was right, the cancer cell is beautiful. And that bitch almost stole my husband.
The brave crocuses strain upward, oblivious to the possibility of freezing. According to March’s bi-polar, chaotic nature a final and icy belch is not unheard of.
Spring rains tend to uncover things best left unseen. The black-grey carbon monoxide snow dregs and the scrawniness of tree limbs waving like discarded bones litter the yard. Storm scars.
A monochromatic quality seems appropriate as I venture through the frost heaved potholes of this all too recent memory.
There are many things I do not know, like how mothers with bald, cancer ridden children maintain any semblance of normalcy. Yet I see them. They exist.
The love of my life is well. He had a “complete response” to the chemotherapy and radiation. That’s a medical euphemism for “we do not see any more cancer but we are not allowed to say it until 4 ½ years from now.”
Words are involuntary cohorts in this meager explanation, and one thing I DO know is that I am not done talking about it yet.