That summer you were home dying of cancer
the daily news shrieked of lightning-sparked
wild fires, hundred-year floods and a
flurry of shark attacks in Florida –
a boy no older than your son, his arm
torn off one night as he played in the ocean.
And you with your arm swollen
and dead to you –
listening to it all on the radio,
sipping ice water through a straw,
the chemo making you puke,
propped among pillows in the guest room,
a part of you knowing we are all guests here.
One morning a woman on the freeway
bridge just blocks from your home
straddled the railing in the middle of rush hour
inciting a mile-long traffic jam –
irate motorists late for their jobs,
a heckling busload of commuters
goading her to jump.
How can people be so heartless? You asked.
And later, through the fog of chemo and morphine
you called us suddenly one evening –
the Cereus in your kitchen
was growing this most amazing flower,
the magnificent white bud opening almost before your eyes.
And we should come over quickly,
you didn't want us to miss it,
its dying fragrance soon to fill the house.
Peter Pereira
