We sit at the table
she and I.
Our weekly ritual
of alcohol pads
needles
liquid chemo
deep breaths
band aids
and painted toenails.
She is well-acquainted
with bellyaches
on the way to
another three-hour round
of joint exams, therapies
and phlebotomists.
Another school day
away from friends.
I’ve become familiar
with medical terms —
effusion, synovial fluid —
and with taking notes:
right ankle
left hip
left pointer finger
right wrist
hips.
In Greek mythology
they are semi-divine
superhuman
with incomparable strength.
In comic books
they are masked
caped
and shredded
Endowed with
force and flight.
“Courage is not
the towering oak
that sees storms
come and go;
it is the fragile
blossom that opens
in the snow,”
says Alice Swaim.
Courage is also
a seven-year-old
who grins,
counting the seconds
of her handstands
unable to keep
from dancing
when the music
hits just right.
