I hear the heavy words
my father delivers
cancer spread
pancreas stent
wish I could skip them
across the creek to the other side
the way he always could,
but instead I put them in
a cardboard refrigerator box
where they have a lot of space
to tumble around,
the kind of box we used to decorate
as children and play with for hours
on the braided living room rug.
I seal it tight with packing tape
along all the seams
placing it in the far corner of my brain
to clear more headspace for
hope love treatment
handholding hugs
more space to push through my day
teaching over Zoom,
preparing family dinners,
so I can show up with more than
some semblance of a smile—
a joy centered in the holiness
of every breath.
