You in bed with ice packs, your
mother flapping and
yell-whispering about the
tasks of the day;

I am a volunteer/ voyeur in my
old life, walking our dog, kissing our
daughter. Driving back to my
new house, hot tears
bubble over.

All those rooms you
waited in for news
of me, smiling when I
woke from my cold
anesthetic slumber,
reporting, driving gingerly over
speed bumps on the
way home, telling me in the
following days to be
patient with myself, my body;
day four always the worst,
the drugs and fear
releasing themselves from
my cells, dark and depressive.

You gave me solid ground for
twenty-five years, and today
I could not repay the favor.