The Hope

                      Frani
                           climbs out
                         of the shower,
                       wrapped in a pink
                    bath towel, pats herself
                   dry, ties           back her hair,
                  wipes the                mist from the      
                 mirror, and                        stares at the
                naked image.                       Her face has
                                     good color.                             smooth.Youthful.                  
               Her body is                                trim, firm, and
              shapely. She                            raises her right
              arm and with                             her left hand         
                    performs the                                periodic ritual.            
                   Her fingers                               probe her breast          
                and underarm,                 gently squeezing,
                 searching for               lumps, bulges,
                  tenderness or pain. She finds     
                 nothing and repeats the process
                  on her left side. She'll be            
                   forty in a few months and
                   have a mammogram, another
                    procedure she'll have to
                   endure every year, because
                    she's at risk. Her mother
                    lost her right  breast     
                   over twenty     years ago,
                  she's alive,        but, Gram'ma 
              died from the            cancer, long
            before Frani                     had been   
            born.  And what                 if I have it,       
            lumpectomy,                         mastectomy,
            or should I                                  take the test       
            to find out if                           I have the gene,     
             and then what if                        I do? Have both      
             removed and                             reconstructed,    
            still losing a                                    piece of myself?'    
     "Mommy, why                                         are you crying?"    
           Frani's five                                             year-old asks, from
         the threshold                                             of the doorway.
                                                              "It's nothing,                                                   honey, I have                                                             
         something in                                                  my eye."  She
        rubs her eyes                                                     and wonders,
       'My daughter will                                                     have to face
                this, but I know                                                           they will soon         
                                                                find a                                                                        cure?'                                                      

Submited by poetpete
Wednesday, August 31, 2011 - 08:36