Car Valet at the Cancer Institute

Your ears dark brown, moles the size of ink drops splattered around. 
I follow the path down to your jawline- so sharp since you lost all of that weight. 

I hold onto this image. 
I hold onto this moment. 
It isn't much. 
It is short 

It is just a routine appointment-a paracentesis- but I hold onto it because you are here 
Because I can look over to you and smile 
Because I can lean my hand on the blade of your shoulder 
Because I can still call you Dad 
Because you can see me 
Because I know that one day our routine appointments 
Our drives together 
Our looks we give each other when we know Mom is being dramatic 
Our calls 
Our hugs 

Will be no more 

Your head moves impatiently side to side waiting for our car. 
My hands grip the handles of the wheelchair tightly. 
I wonder how many other hands held these handles? 
I wonder how many other people sat where you sat just waiting? 


Waiting for a scan 
Waiting for an IV 
Waiting for results 
Waiting for an elevator 
Waiting for a room 
Waiting for their names to be called to the the back 
Waiting for the side effects to subside 
Waiting for medicine deliveries 
Waiting for TPN 
Waiting to schedule 
Waiting for it to get better 

All that waiting… 

Until we are the ones left waiting… 


Waiting to see you again. 

The car pulls up. And you nod for us to go. 
You had enough waiting for today.

-- Julie B., Adult