When She Smiles

Mom at the Matterhorn.

When she smiles,

the patch covering the hole
that cancer made where her right eye
used to be,

lifts and I can see the hole
while I am trying to eat dinner,
I am polite and swallow small bies

as I try to flow with her frenetic energy,
her passion for the next event, the next trip,
for the family photos

for the trips to Mexico for some kind of miracle
and to Chicago for chemotherapy,
and for her loved-soaked mother stories.

She has suffered for over forty-five years
with cancer, three or more primary sites,
mixed with lost love and not enough money,

and friends coming out of their walls
to help her, and she, trying to lead
the Yul Brynner Foundation

For Head And Neck Canter, --
that man who said, "When you watch this,
I'll be dead.  Whatever you do, don't smoke."

I say, when she smiles,
the patch over her cancer hole lifts
and I take small bites and listen

and can't even hear my problems--
they have crawled inside her head,
down into her heart

and moved through her body,
out her fingers and toes,
coming back to bless me.

And then she walks me to her truck,
gives me a book of love and laughter and prayers
and says, I never say goodbye, just so long."

Then she smiles so beautifully--
the patch always matched with her dress,
and me, embracing my tiny pain.

William L. Killian
Written for Janet Trever
Wednesday, September 24, 1997
Tucson, AZ