The house, shadowed and still,
smelled musty -
spring rains soaking
everything, muddy boots left on the porch
beneath rain-streaked windows.
I opened the living room blinds,
gray light
finding its way in
to unseal the darkness.
The dog and cat greeted me, hungry,
pacing at my feet.
Fed them until sounds of
chewing and purring
mingled with the washing of dishes.
Another sound hit my senses -
a muffled cry from upstairs.
I attacked the steps two at a time,
discovering you on the bathroom floor,
head wedged
at the base of the toilet.

“Don’t come in.”
I ignored you. My mind raged -
a jumble of curse words aimed at cancer,
chemotherapy, doctors.
You - laid out on a linoleum floor
shivering.
“Don't want you to see me like this.”
“Shhhh,” I whispered.
Kneeling, I put your arms
around my neck, lifting you like a child.
You weighed so little.
Felt the rigid, pointed bones of you
stabbing...