You asked me to stay the night
and talk, as we often did,
until first light.
I followed you up the steps
to the bedroom, opened the dresser
where I kept some spare clothes.
Showered and changed.
Leaned over the bed,
rearranged
pillows and blankets.
Soon you were beside me
nestled at my neck and shoulder,
midnight eyes searching blue.
Then came the question,
“Will you look at the scar?”
It made me furious to know what
you’d been through -
a mastectomy, lymph node removal,
drainage tubes,
months of healing
and now feeling unattractive.
I didn’t want to be cliche,
didn’t want to say
you’ll always be beautiful to me
no matter what -
even if it was the truth.
I helped you lift your shirt and
there it was -
a red scar across
the skin of your chest
and up into the armpit.
You placed my hand there and
it felt firm and slightly raised.
I asked if it still hurt -
and you explained about the
aching, burning phantom pains.
I held you close,
said how much I loved you.
We watched the fireflies
outside the window -
bringing much needed light into the room,
if only fleeting.
So much like you -
illuminating my life so brilliantly,
extinguished far too soon.

© Laura DeHart Young