Living Loss

She imagined a life for him–
when he was small, pushing a toy car across carpeted floors.

She remembers a time when things were normal,
when life, both hers and his, did not revolve around a substance.

Then came illness:
fatigue, pallor, bruising which
became low cell counts, uncertainty, leukemia.

Then came the slow invasion
initially a drink after work which
became a habit that encroached each second.

Her planner fills with appointments,
therapies she cannot even pronounce–
the “new normal.”

Her day fills with worries, calls to lawyers,
rehab centers, landlords, the bank–
the “last chance.”

Prospects of college,
careers, grandchildren – shattered.
Prospects of recovery,
stability, grandchildren – indefinitely postponed.

She keeps that same toy car,
glued to the dash as a reminder
that while sterile hums of machines
have replaced his effortless laughter,
not all is lost – hope remains.

She keeps an old cellphone wallpaper photo of him
that lingers as a reminder.

3:03 a.m. – a call breaks through, interrupting.
It’s him. Her eyes flicker to the screen.
She will always be there.

“Will he live to see his second decade?”
She is grieving,
though he is still here.
That is what she battles with.

“Will I be fueling his disease?”
Guilt swells.
This, too, is what she battles with:
a living loss.