"Let's race!"
she'd say, and spring down the driveway,
her bare feet speckled with gravel.
We'd feed apples to the horses
- just a little extra
before grabbing our bowls of Cheerios.
A few cartoons, a few loads of laundry,
and we'd both have to escape to the sunshine.
She napped with her head on my belly
and I read paperbacks bookmarked with blades of grass.
"But Trace-"
she'd say, and fix me with blue eyes
warm as her favorite mittens.
We'd stay up late watching cartoons
-just a little past bedtime
before I'd tuck her in for the night.
Too old for bedtime stories, not too old
to cling to my hand, or ask me to stay.
Her eyelashes fluttered while dreaming,
and I prayed she'd stay that way.
"It's cancer,"
they say. The news is fatal,
and all I can say is "my baby..."
as I sob in the hallway
- just trying to be quiet
before grabbing my keys and running.
So many tubes, so many devices,
and people croweded throughout the room.
She couldn't even smile when she saw me,
though I promised her trail rides to cheer her.
"Hey, kiddo,"
I said, last week in the hospital,
when she suddenly looked so old,
"we'll get through this
-just hold on,"
before the doctors told me to go.
No comments:
Post a Comment