Terminal, a poem for Patricia
I am thinking of the night you called, two years ago, sobbing and hysterical with fear, suddenly overwhelmed by the fact of your terminal diagnosis. And as we spoke on the phone, I could feel you were stunned by the silence of your one-person home and how like a graveyard it must have felt. How your mind began flying like a moth trapped inside a tomb. And ever arrogant, I aspired to do one brave thing and tell you how things would go with some conjured sense of certainty. How much braver I would have been to admit right then that I sometimes have nights like this myself. Me, a person with no terminal diagnosis living in a house full of people, still able to pretend the years all belong to me and that I feel them stretch endlessly out ahead.
Powerful
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Reblogged this on writermummy and commented:
I know I’ve been quiet on the blog recently. I have lost my writing voice in Christmas chaos. But I’m still reading blogs every day. Sometimes I read something that makes me take a sharp gulp of breath in recognition. This was one of those.
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You’re right, Amanda. There is recognition. Scarily so.
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Glad you saw something true in this. I am fascinated to find how some of my most personal, profound experiences turn out to be universal.
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