The hum of a white-noise fan upstairs
The purr of a lone car going by
The sound of my own cough.
I feel very silly for telling the doctor I am not coughing anymore
But it made him happy to have cured me
And it was true at the time.
Maybe I am allergic to loss.
So many joys to be grateful for, this month of February
So many people blessing us and offering the greatest of care
I list them all out in thanks, and then
The cursor blinks and there is nothing.
Now is the last weekend, when the foster baby clothes are packed,
The toys carefully garnered from all over the house
And no gleanings left in the corners
A year’s worth of living packed
In white trash bags
But not trash
Each day that passes is one day farther on
Each task accomplished is less to face tomorrow
Each mission is strength for the next.