Get better soon, Danny boy.

Tuesday Mornings with Daaaaniel

"Daaaaaniel," he said. He climbed onto my lap and the nurse panicked, adjusting the tubes hanging over my arms.

Pale, gangly Daaaaaniel. Four and many months. Lover of Skittles. Professional thumb wrestler. Valiant knight, trained in hand-to-hand combat, tiny balled fists that hook and cross and jab at that foul beast, cancer. Daaaaaniel.

"Why come you're not bald?"

He reached into my hair and pulled out small chunks of curls.


He shoved his hand back in, trying to return the locks.

Tuesday mornings with Daaaaaniel.

"Why come you bring a 'puter?"
"Why come you is yellow?"
"Why come you're crying?"
"Why come you by yourself again?"

My tiny warrior began with an army: mom, dad, sister, uncle, friend, nanny.

As the war continued, so did the casualties, replaced by a wicked plague.

An onslaught, the vomit allied with our gauntness, and taunted.

Laura, 40s, eyes permanently glassy, sent the baby away to rock, paper, scissor the nurse while she stifled sobs and cursed.

Daddy's gone away. He can't handle the pain. It's a separation, he just needs some time, I'm playing therapist while I'm hooked up to an Adriamycin line.

EMT, the bravest, lives for his work, saving other kids while Danny boy settles for wearing his dad's Eagles shirt.

It can be so easy to invest in strangers, easier still to run away from our own.

But how will that boy forgive him when he's grown?

Tuesday mornings with Daaaaniel: together we're not alone.

Poetry by MsImaginary The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-04-28 at 07:02

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Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
This poem is so very moving that it seems impertinent even to praise its poetic prowess, but I do praise it, and in the highest possible terms. You've given us a beautifully accomplished poem-portrait. Thank you.