Whispers from the Reaper

I answer a late call from an elderly friend

sharing the news of her husband’s test results.

No news that comes late is ever good…

Her words come in short bursts—

“Cancer of the lymph nodes,

  aggressive chemo suggested

  but he’s old… worn-out…tired.”

“Second choice: not-so-aggressive chemo,

  five-hour stint once a week for six weeks”

 “No guarantees.”

I hear the weight in her voice, the quiver…

then the words,

“Gotta go, can’t talk anymore.”

I‘m left thinking of the past dozen years,

all the tests my own husband’s had. How often

we’ve held our collective breath awaiting

results…always with the same thought:

 “Not cancer, not terminal, we can deal with it.”

And I wonder…how many times can one

 elude the boatman before he exacts his toll?

©  Ginny Brannan 2013