It began innocently, the way most things do— the seed planted in good ground, the ovum splitting again and again, the first cigarette held to your lips between three fingers in the fluorescent light of the bathroom stall— when you reached too far to pull the last weed from beneath the narcissus, their heads already dead and gone. Somehow the tilt of body wrong, you plummeted to the brick walk. After, you limped into the house, surveyed the leg, which in days ahead turned purple, blue. The cost of growing old, you thought. An inconvenience. Nothing that stopped you from cooking dinner, making the bed, speaking to your daughter on the phone. And Thursday, the day you always went into town for groceries, laundry, a visit to the local bookstore—you did that too. Even went out for an evening of music, as your lower leg swelled and hurt more than it should. How could you know that your very bones had betrayed you— the orderly birth of white and red cells turned into pandemonium, a blossoming of random blasts, good for nothing except chaos—invisible cancer growing? No lumps on your breasts when you raised your arm and felt around, no bleeding or black lungs. Only a bit of tiredness, a new drag to your step that could have been age, that could have been anything—a virus, a slight cold, the humid air weighing you down. december Volume 30.1
Poems by Judy Kaber