Somewhere: A Prose Poem (Draft)

Somewhere, right now, someone is getting life changing news. Is it good news - “The biopsy was benign.” “The treatment worked!” “You’re NED.” - and they are exhaling all the way down to their toes? or bad - “Your scans show growth.” “You have cancer.” “We weren’t able to get all of it.” - and the inhale is sharp and tight, and they can’t get enough air? Each of these possibilities are becoming reality right now, somewhere. Tred lightly today; someone is having their heart broken. Someone is lighter than air. Someone is bleeding themselves into yet another test tube, and drumming their fingers while they wait for the bloodwork to come back. Someone is losing her hair. Someone is accepting exuberant hugs from their children and crying huge, heated tears. Someone is taking a tentative step into the next chapter of their life right now. Tred softly. 

Speak quietly, in reverence for the pain. Tred softly; let the energy of the great world thrum through the feet of those who need to be grounded again. Offer your empty heart as celebration space. Offer it up, and see what happens next. This is a season of expectation and celebration, after all. 

I’m waiting to hear from one of those rooms today. I’m squeezing my friend’s digital hand while I wait. While she is in the cloistered space - white walls, white coats, white faces - I am sitting outside, singing. The sun is warm on my tired face. It is still and quiet here, in the weak winter sun. But somewhere, around the world, many people are learning their fates. 

(I try not to think, what will it be for me, at my next scan? Because that’s the Schroëdinger’s Cat of questions. I feel like that cat sometimes. My tail twitches. Coat black as night, eyes clear as marbles in the inky dark, waiting. Waiting for someone to open my box and exclaim whether or not I’m alive.)