August 21, 2018
One-eyed half-smile gaze. Involuntary Picasso. I gaze right back. Into this side, the side where I can still see my love. First, it was just the taste buds. Radiation searing through cheek and tongue, walnut sized tonsil tumor. Incinerated through maximum minute beams bouncing off walls three feet thick. Taste buds too. When it came back, on the soft palate this time, it was his smile, the collateral damage. Jaw busted open, scalpel slivering away hour after hour, until only one side was left. So many off-color jokes left untold. It’s hard to tell a joke like that with half a tongue. And now, the toxins. Winnowing him away from the inside, the skeleton of a fragile bird where his chest used to be. Poisoning every pore. A clump of thick black hair huddled in the corner of the room. Lifeless. A dead rat. I lace my fingers through his still strong grasp, thumbing his new wedding ring, size 9 not 9 ¼. The first one slipped off and away somewhere the other day. The new one is smaller this time, like our lives. And he wears it now, as I hold his hand in mine, close my eyes to try and remember his smile and mine, the way they used to be.
When We Were the Birds 