The Monster in Your Closet

Donnell (A Wordsmith’s Brainworks) stumbled upon my blog a few days before I shaved my head for St. Baldrick’s pediatric cancer charity in March. Her comment on one of my posts led me to her blog, where I learned that she’s a writer, a poet and one heckuva woman and mother. Although her posts about her son’s battle with cancer are sometimes hard to read, they also fill me with hope that comes from seeing life not in terms of its inevitable end result but in the goodness of the loving actions we take before then.

Recommended post: Heroes

October Son

A Monday born October son,
I felt your unspoiled, neonate skin.
We were three and all complete,
and for it I was thankful.

I, protective as a lioness
sheltering her cherished cub,
watched you grow and thrive;
you flourished well.
And for that I was thankful.

Autumn came, and like the sun
descending at the end of day,
your hardiness and strength
dipped below that distant threshold.
We were assured it would ascend,
and for it I was thankful.

You were well with the new year,
if only for a brief interval that
seduced us with its false promise
of health, and we were all too thankful.

The Moirai spun their fated threads,
we merely did what mortals can,
and suffered their predestination.
A prognosis grim but the culprit found
and that we knew was encouraging
and a thing for which to be thankful.

The path is long and obstructed by
entanglements and uncertainty.
We are wearied but do not go alone,
the masses follow us into the night,
and for that I am thankful.

Progress is slow but obvious;
you’re more well now than weeks ago.
The scales do not hang in our favor, but
still you smile and press your lips.
Your will can match a hundred men,
and for this I am thankful.

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