We all grew our hair long:
Neal with his thick brown mop,
and me, with my straight black tresses,
each prepared to shave our head
just in case she needed it,
in case she lost her own
to the chemo
like she lost her energy
and appetite.
We sat in silence as she and Dad listed
the course of action
they would take on the tumor
that had invaded her breast.
We were sick at the mention
of a doctor slicing her breast open
and pulling out the demonic tissue,
a partial mastectomy
and we took turns crying to each other
upstairs into our pillows
after they had gone to bed
so she wouldn’t know that the cancer
had us under control
just as much as it had her,
invading our bodies,
eating away at our inner sinew,
and causing us to vomit
each time she ran for the bathroom,
causing us to shake
each time she got cold.
We tried not to remind ourselves
that her best friend Alanna
lost her own battle
fifteen years earlier,
and concentrated instead
on how much science had changed since 1990,
all the while feeling the noose
of pink ribbons.
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