Breathe Deep, Listen, and You'll Know

You could have written a book about the sorrows,

each one colliding like dominoes falling down a line,

but never did you chase away the hopes that erupted

from just one kind word or even a passing smile.

There may have been no sense to the optimism,

but you would rather have your happy blindness

than watch the world through a graying lens.

When the doctor told you the news on a Sunday,

you still went to the church to sing in choir

even while your heart trembled in this new fear.

No one could have told the difference—

"always has a smile, that one"—

and the kids, who could sense these things,

did not even give you a second glance.

You could fool the world with just a mask

made up of all convention and expectation.

Most might not have seen the point

of your secrecy in the diagnosis,

but you hated pity more than anything

and thought the lie would cause less harm.

The months passed as you ticked away

like a timer with an unknown limit,

and only when you grew frail in motion

did someone ask how you really were.

You had a smile, as usual, at the ready.

"Doing well, thanks," you said, cheerful,

but the eyes lingered on your back

and you knew the jig was up.

Only weeks to go and you had people

showing up at your door and asking

what you needed, how they could help—

and for the first time in years you cried

and wondered how you were so lucky.

The end was not really an end after all—

just a cycle of actions giving and receiving—

and you were but a piece of the process

with every helping hand and pay it forward.

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