So, at six when the kitty brought me his mouse, I flung it across the room for him to chase. He'll slam himself into a wall to fetch it and return to me, panting, with the thing crammed in his mouth.
I picked up my book to while away the time hoping I would grow drowsy, but to no avail. Got up, made tea and toast, and a poem begged to be written.
My eyes sting but do not cry,
Another friend to face surgery again,
another bone tumor in the skull.
How much can the front
of the face be cut away?
For years now, my friend,
phone calls across miles,
him joking all the time.
My insides churn,
My throat protests.
Why I took this on,
this helping others
with the same disease,
seems hollow to me now.
So hopeful was I
to imagine bringing others
down that familiar path,
one surgery after another.
Little did I know so many
would result in death.
I ask myself why did I survive.
