Sundays were always a blessing,
A day of rest, but the weight of a new week hovered,
an anvil waiting to drop.
Now, the weight rises from
below, and drags me
gasping for breath.
Now, on Sundays, I present myself to
a bringer of hope,
a harbinger of doom.
I wake early, unable to eat, to drink until after
vials upon vials,
is drawn from my bruised flesh.
Then, a reprieve. A cup of coffee, a breakfast treat.
Time to myself, a rare gift.
Time, when no one is wanting, asking, needing.
Time, when no one is arguing, yelling, crying.
Time, I would enjoy,
if I could breathe.
I wonder, I worry, what will the results be?
Will the numbers tell a story my body doesn’t seem to know?
Or will they offer at least a pale reflection of the truth of my days?
silent tears no one sees
as the fire surges,
the ache envelops,
the pain overwhelms.
I kneed and pull and clench, yet my hands still
even in rest, my skin
Will the numbers tell the Truth?
The Doctor will see you now.
Will she? See?
She knows the numbers, but her face reveals
How have you been?
(What can I say? Will the numbers make a liar out of me?)
She presses and prods and I wince,
Does it hurt?
You sure aren’t a complainer.
(Should I be?)
Well, your numbers look
(Perhaps I should)
(But it hurts)
You know it can take time
for the medicine to work,
so I think we should stay the course.
(Why do the numbers lie?)
No, I don’t think so.
(Is this what my life will be now?)
Thank you, Doctor.
But, my voice shakes, my eyes swim.
Are you alright?
Yes, it’s just
Yes, I know.
But, I’ll see you next month,
and hopefully you’ll be feeling better by then.
And, so I wait
another month of Sundays
for better things,
until a Sunday when the numbers won’t lie
and neither will I.