i still remember drives down
route 113 laying on the back
seat staring up through
the side window with the sky
broken every now and again
as power lines passed by.
we drove in silence
to a nameless hospital
where words like “cancer”
and “chemo” meant nothing
to a young mind and as i sat
there quietly and still
in an antiseptic hall people
dressed in white would pass
and remark on how smart
i looked and how well
i behaved while i waited
for my mémère to emerge
from some mysterious
room. finally it was back
to her home where we’d be
greeted with the warm smell
of homemade chicken soup
and sitting at the kitchen table
i heard her say “he’s too
young to see me like this”
and my mom replied “it will
make him a good man, ma”
but lost in a deck of cards
and steaming bowls
of chicken soup i had no way
of knowing that one cold
december morning not long
enough from then and in
the barest blink of an eye
my world would forever
be gone.
