Crops are in and out, again. The corn in the morning is chopped down by the time the farm workers head home, and by morning it is baled and ready to ship. I wish I saw transitions as ultimately good and nothing to be feared; or the beauty in life being a continual and migratory step along the journey that will bring new, unexplored things.
My roots are deep in the now. I tire of the pretty side of cancer with its shirts and walkathons and blitzes now that I face the paperskin, cane walking, hard breathing, gut wrenching squatter that has leached into bones and organs and set up house in my friend's lives.
It is bittersweet, sitting with a friend who is very very ill, cheering him and his lovely wife who is as much a victim as he is, and watching their daughter's courage and resign. And the next day, with a gathering of lifelong friends, one having just learned about her son's friend's cancer and bowing her head with dark, helpless tears; a second in remission but whose haunting eyes reflect back the ordeal and weariness there; and another, walking stooped with a cane, now shallow chested and struggling to even be there.
Anger is such an inadequate word. Whatever strong thing that is inside of me bubbles bubbles bubbles just below the surface; I cannot fathom why there would be something manufactured to consume the host along with itself. Do not tell me this is a natural part of life. Being 'about that age' is no consolation, none at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment