pandalicious's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kissing Tiny Flowers On a clicking board, I type. Clicks and clacks denote spaces and punctuation and clack click clack it goes. In about 11 hours they will cut into his neck. The will pull apart the muscle and scrape. Scrape away crooked cells, scrape them hard and fast, but be careful. He is my only one, you know. And her only one. He's all we've got. ----- In his own quiet way, he has been preparing for something more grim than just a slice through skin and tissue. He has been dabbing on the secret sunblock of 'just in case,' should the reaper really be coming for him. He's been writing to us; special things that might get stuck there in the same throat that has become riddled with this madness. A poem, a secret letter never meant to be read. Birthday poems. And he thanks his lucky stars for us. Even after the way we've been. Even though we ride his back like drunken monkeys, at times, for no reason other than to make ourselves feel momentarily bigger or smarter or wiser or something. Daddy, I'm sorry for this. I am. And I should be writing you poems and secret letters. In fact, I shouldn't keep them secret because you need to know. I can't believe you think YOU'RE the lucky one. All my life you have remained a constant star, a map home, the squasher of snakes - real and imaginary. Anything for me, your only little girl. And I feel like I don't give it back nearly enough. I would not cherish my boy the way I do if I had not learned from you and Mom what love really is. And every day we lay down on our backs at the end of our day and speak soft about love and luck and I found a good one, Daddy. He's a lot like you. Today, I hate to say it, but as you dozed in your favorite chair, I tried to imagine that your breath didn't rattle through you, that you were still. I looked at your face, contorted with sleep and I saw peace. How can you be peaceful when it's eating you up inside? This cancer? I don't want you to die. Your lungs filled effortlessly as you slept, your chest heaving quietly up and down, up and down. This is how this should be. Flashes of Grandma and the two Grandpas. Their skin at rest, at once. Their bodies laid out so we could remember them, drink in the sight of them one last time... say our goodbyes. You asleep, sweetly. Promise me that this will stop. You are endless to me. You cannot end so suddenly. I promise you grandbabies if you want them. Just stick around. In less than 11 hours, they will cut you open to give you new life. I loved my poem. You don't have to tell me you love me. I know you do. But it means the world to me that you took your time, since *I* am the lucky one. Be brave. I have the picture in my head still. You in the army, sleeping sweetly, leg tucked under your arm somehow in the name of comfort on your cot. It was my vow to never let anything hurt you. I wish I could stop this wave. ------ 12:42 a.m. - October 8, '02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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