What Oxygen Gives

I will always remember

you—newly retired—with

my firstborn son cradled

soft to your chest; those tiny

legs drawn up until he was

no more than a handful. What

a trio we were: the retired man,
lactating mother, and small
one of adulation. Everyday
we journeyed to the farm

and your embrace because

it gave me great joy to watch

the two of you sleep on

the couch. Funny how memories,

like rust, grow dull with time

and oxygen…until the doctor

uses words like: “mass” and

“malignant” and “tests”. The
surgery went well, though it
it was no picnic. It was the

waiting on tests that nearly did me

in. And when your son texted

me today: “All pathology is

negative…no cancer in the

lymph nodes”, I wept like a

child. Tonight, we all stood

out under the stars and thanked

God for you. I reached for the

hand of that man-child you

used to hold in one hand and

marveled at how beautiful

it is to breathe and be alive and
receive what oxygen gives.

for the tweatspeak poetry prompt and
photoplay at The High Calling. and in
celebration and giddy joy for good news.