Cancer. Twenty years ago, I could pick up the phone and have a nice little chat with my dad. Today, because kidney cancer took him away, I'm missing him and wishing to exchange a few words with him. Twenty years ago, my husband helped his dad with repairing fences on their ranch. Today, my husband aches to hear his dad tell him a story about some cattle that wandered and was found, but he can't; colon cancer took that away from him. Twenty years ago or so, I heard a high school friend had given birth. Today, a 22-year-old is planning a wedding without her mom, who died in 2007 from cancer. Twenty years ago, my husband's cousin was working at a courthouse and enjoying a fun life. Today, she worries, recently diagnosed with lymphoma, a blood cancer. Twenty years ago, my sister and brother-in-law were raising two children, looking forward to more. Today, they drove their six-year-old to receive chemo, hoping it will help him fight neuroblastoma, a cancer of the nerve cells. Twenty years ago, my mother enjoyed visits with a dear friend named Mercy. Today, my mom visits Mercy one last time at a hospice house, while her friend is within hours of dying of uterine cancer. Twenty years ago, it was a pretty abstract idea to me. Today, it is too concrete. Cancer.
Today's haiku I wrote after witnessing my mother's one-sided conversation with her friend, as she tells Mercy good-bye, and that she loves her, and will always remember the laughter and fun talks they shared. That she will miss her. (Manita is a Spanish word of endearment meaning Little Sister).
Manita, I'm here.
Caresses, then a last kiss
Farewell, Amiga.
So lovely ♥
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