her daughter has a tumor behind her knee.
Already it’s grown into the bone.
Very aggressive, the doctor says,
and though he names the diagnosis,
he tells my friend not to Google it.
Sometimes what we know
creates more footholds for fear. There’ll be surgery,
the doctor says, and chemo.
I want to give her a brush tonight, nothing special,
one she could pull through her own long hair
and then through her daughter’s dark curls, as well.
How commonplace to brush and comb,
to unsnarl the tangles and make one’s hair
smooth again. I want to give her the terrible gift
of the habitual life—the tedious days in which we
brush and wash and dress and sleep and work
and laugh and shit and yell and fuss and forget
how fragile we are, forget how temporary
these bodies can be, forget how bloody lucky
we are every minute to be alive.
So lovely, how that brush finds its way to the heart. A really fine piece, this one.
Thanks amigo mio! Hey, I will be there in Cortez on January 20, performing at the library at 10, exactly at the time of the inauguration hope you can come? Xo r
From: “comment-reply@wordpress.com” Reply-To: Date: Wednesday, December 28, 2016 at 8:02 AM To: Rosemerry Trommer Subject: [A Hundred Falling Veils] Comment: “In the Letter My Friend Says”
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Dear Rosemerry, I used this in a recent talk I gave about remembering the small graces of life. As I stood before the group, I was unprepared for my own reaction to your poem that I had chosen to read to them. Moved, I found myself weeping as I read it. In the embrace of silence that followed, I saw that many tears fell besides mine. Quite a touching poem! Thank you for sharing your moments of awakening with us!
Love and Namaste
Augusta
Augusta, thank you! This comment had gone to spam, so I just saw it. Thank you for telling me the story of sharing it and your own response and the responses of others. We are so lucky, and oh, how I wish that my friend’s story were going better … but it’s still a very very difficult journey. I still wish her ease, small pleasures. Hugs to you, Augusta, r