6 months

The heatless air nips at the bumpy flesh on my arms. The wind pushing the sound of loose leaves through the cracked window. I watch them swirl around outside, then fall again. The November weather setting in. My nose surely pink, running and cold to the touch. I can hear you groan from the pain, angry and frustrated. The thin white sheet beneath you- glistens with sweat. The once-white-floors , dark from the steps of sad loved ones. The white walls littered with draping cords and blinking lights. White covers almost everything in sight, the faux sunlight too bright for sensitive eyes. They water in pain, my mouth tight. The rain drenches the collar of your shirt. My heart burns. My heart aches. At the sight of your pain. The downpour pours down your face. Speechless and shivering in a gloomy room.

The darkness begins to set in before the life is finished leaving. And it’s winter time before the leaves finish dying. I listen to your troubled breathing and hope that you continue fighting. More leaves fall by the hour, caught in the icy wind. The light is fading out and the darkness is spreading within. Your body is covered, we saw it in the scans.

Daylight savings time, won’t save our time. Nothing can save our time, what little time we have left. Because not even the purest angels can cheat death. All eight hours of daylight spent in a rusty chair. Writhing in pain, chilled to the bone. Tired of fighting, and the color red. Repetitive. Between blood, anger and crippled leaves. The yellow turns to brown as life leaves slowly. Your life leaving slowly. Each leaf a petal- fallen. Your life like an enchanted rose, the time’s slipping away. I used to love Autumn’s colors and the cold winter breeze. But all I can think of is how everything is dying around me. How you’re dying, how I’m dying. The only difference between us is time. Time that we have, time that we don’t. Six months will pass, too fast to hope. Six months of rain, six months of cold, six months diagnosed. A battle with the darkness, a battle that can never be won. Don’t stop fighting, don’t let go. Not until the winters over, not until spring has passed. Not until summer has begun. Not until after that. Because we’re not ready to say goodbye. We’re not ready for the cold. With each day passing is another day closer to death. We don’t have much time left. I used to love Autumns colors and the cold winters breeze. But all that comes to mind now is the bad news you’ve received. And the rain that fell came from your eyes. Because you wanted to live, you didn’t want to die. And the white Christmas wasn’t because of snow, it was because the hospital rooms were a dull white and full of sorrow. But we make the best of the pain and darkness.

Because who knows what cancer has in store for us tomorrow.