Slowly
AB
It learned your name slowly,
studied your habits,
and stole you in pieces,
while we pretended not to notice.
Hands that once lifted the weight of our family,
trembled around a glass of water.
Your voice grew quieter,
as if apologizing for leaving early.
Time was measured in scans,
and appointments,
and numbers on a chart,
instead of memories.
We reconnected in ways I didn't know I missed.
We joked as if laughter could bargain with death -
as if love could somehow prosecute biology.
When you left,
the room didn't feel holy or dramatic.
It was sadly ordinary.
The world kept breathing,
expectations were disappointingly met.
Honestly, that's what hurts the most.
The quiet realization that,
I will live more years without you,
than I had with you.
The word "cancer" tastes like theft.
Not only because it took my father -
but because it also took
the future versions of my children
who still had you in it.