Cancer is a thief.
Only he isn’t an ordinary criminal,
Stealing replaceable goods.
He isn’t even a criminal mastermind
who can always be outmaneuvered
if enough superheroes band together
like Cancer Avengers—
or Ghostbusters (to keep it light).
Cancer is a thief.
He shrunk your six-foot-three frame
that towered over me all my life
and sometimes intimidated but mostly defended me,
Leaving me vulnerable.
He reduced your strong arms to twigs,
the ones that shot all those nothing-but-net baskets
and swung Pings like magic wands casting spells over fairways,
Leaving me unprotected.
He lowered the volume of your voice
from a commanding boom to a barely audible whisper and then…
Silence.
Leaving me alone.
Cancer is a thief.
I was sure I would have at least twenty more years with you.
I was sure I would always be able to call you
for advice on money or cars,
to talk Tar Heel basketball,
to hear your insights on the minds of men,
or just for no reason at all.
I was sure you would take me to Disney World or the Angus Barn
Just one more time, Daddy, pleeeaaase…
Cancer is a thief,
but he couldn’t take all of you…
The courage
The confidence
The ingenuity
The wit
The strong will
The generous spirit—
Locked safely in my very DNA.
The wisdom
The lessons
The memories
The support
The love
The hope of eternity—
Untouchable.
I hate you cancer.
I miss you, Daddy.
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)
crosseyedliving 