the end, the beginning

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i’m sitting in a pile of kleenex.
mine and leanne’s.
in the waiting room.
i just walked out from the place
where she was getting ready for the procedure.
she’s crying so much.
i help her take her shoes off and then her socks.
her face has been getting whiter and whiter every day this week.
the cancer is growing.
i undo her bra and fold it.
her pants. her underpants.
the tumors are tight on her face.
i tie her robe at the top, right around the scar
from the lymph node they took out a week ago,
the one that was supposed to have been swollen because of a virus.
i put it all in a plastic bag.

but here’s what i want to put in the bag:
my grief, and hers.
the guilt. the disappointment.
the cold. the futility.
and the cancer.

outside the nurses are crying too.

after the anesthesiologist leaves i follow him out
and whisper to him, because i can only whisper now, to make
sure that the baby is asleep too.
he says it will be.

last night lydia wouldn’t sleep again. we light the candle
and lydia is crying, trying to pull us to bed.
say goodbye to the baby in mommy’s belly, we say.
bye bye baby, she says.
and then, later in bed, out of nowhere, she says
see you later, alligator.

—

when i go back into the OR prep room, leanne is still crying,
the versed starting to ooze into her.
she has her hands on her belly, rubbing circles in it with her fingers and palms.

i’m sorry, she says.

then again.

and again.

and again.

that’s all she says. and i say it too and lean my cheek on her forearm.
i have trouble touching her belly.

she’s still saying it when i have to leave the room.

she won’t remember a thing, they say.

which is so, so untrue.

she’ll remember everything.

and so will i.

—

she is out now. at home asleep in a chair.

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