Saturday, August 31, 2013

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

1 comment:

  1. ugh. its a scary thought. cancer has touched my family in a couple ways and with so many that have ti you have to wonder. i hope they can help your friends husband. i wish we could find a cure


Thank you for reading my poetry and sharing your thoughts.