Just One More Day

Today, my husband, John, enters his final surgery in connection with his successful defeat of colon cancer.

Just one more day

I held your hand after our daughter died;

two years and two months to the day,

as you say. You held my hand when I was

on the brink of losing what was left of me

in the aftermath of glitter gone and spirit

dispensed. Many times, I did try and rinse

self-blame and shame of her loss, and

of our firefly. 

I held your hand in February after we’d

learned the little one had gone, and understood

Valentine’s is a commercial, and its true meaning

is only earned through holding on to love after

dust settles from tornados rising up.  It takes

strength to make your own soul rise when you

want to push the world away. But you held

my hand, and I understood it’s one more day.

You hold my hand in such a way that it’s

love after the meaning and hope in the

Beatles’ lyrics, “I wanna hold your hand,” because

it’s a need to grab and keep when you know

what it means to say, “goodbye” even when you

wish to thrive. I get tried, but I know how to

live after the glitter fades. 

I learned how to walk to the hospital for

your first surgery when I saw the place of

my nightmares. I had to learn to drive and walk to

the side of children’s hospital where they pronounced

her “dead.” And the dread filled me every time.  When

you walk in tornadoes. and sense hurricanes are coming

while the sun still shines; you learn to look forward.

Never to the side. You learn lessons no one can

teach you.  It becomes one more day.

This morning you say, “It’s been two years and two

months. I’m aware of the day.” I hold your hand

because I’ve long sense stopped counting the days.

I had to keep going. Keep making a showing that

I can make things glitter on the outside even when

nightmares seep into my mind. But when you break

the dirt, you determine the soil you put in the ground.

It’s up to you for what’s to grow.

You say, “Would you like me to drive you to

the parking deck and walk with you?” Then I smile and

reply, “That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve said,

since you’ve asked me to marry you.” You think I’m

sarcastic.  It’s taken me time to realize that when I speak,

I sometimes speak with a brick in my voice, so they

never know what swims below black seas. I stumble with the words,

and explain, “Last time, I walked by myself every day,

and had to teach myself not to look to the right to …”

the children’s hospital where …

“The garden really looks good,” you say. I smile and

reply, “Yes, it does. I haven’t had to do much because

of the rain.” It’s one more day, and I hold your hand

as we wait in line one final time.