Odds
Miracles happen: I believe this,
breast bared and dangling
down through a table designed
for radiation treatment.
The techs push and pull me into position,
marks on my body lining up to deliver targeted dosages.
One foam pad makes all the difference in alignment,
and face pressed into a pink horseshoe,
all I can do is be still
and breathe
and give thanks
for the cushion and its perfect shape;
for the truck drivers
who carried all the machine components
to their intended place;
for the factory workers
who shaped the parts;
for the parents of my cancer team
who ensured their children completed their science homework;
for the doctor
who sacrificed nights of sleep in study;
for scientists
who first thought to irradiate cells;
for the blanket warmer
and the gentle touch of being enveloped;
for all the moments of our lives,
colliding like atoms
into each other;
for the tears on my cheeks
when I raise my head to the words:
“You’re all done now.”
Evergreen
The pang in my breast remains:
scar tissue.
I work out the knots
under my forest green shirt,
my feet press hard into the floor
like roots,
or wishful thinking.
The ache, oh the ache!
It reminds me
pain is part of all living things.
The gnarled knot
where a branch was broken,
now puckered and hardened:
a sign of what disease
will do unbidden.
Next to me,
our artificial tree
has a ten-year anniversary.
White lights drape over limbs,
crimson ribbons tuck into the greenery.
Every year, we stick ornaments
into the bare spots:
on this branch, a memento
from our first married Christmas,
a baby’s birth,
that vacation to the seashore,
and antique ancestral bulbs.
They hang in the spaces
in between,
the tree full
until boxed for the next year.
Elsewhere, stored in an attic,
mice build a home in the branches instead.
Neglected ornaments age and grow brittle
in their fragile boxes.
One day, this tree
which has seen Christmas mornings of happy children,
which has watched lovers dancing
in its evening glow,
will lean against the post-holiday bins
at the curb.
One day, the rustle of the evergreen tree,
shaking scent like falling needles,
will creak under the weight of a too heavy snowfall,
and crack the silence of its forest home,
as it lays its head down,
bowing into the snowdrifts below.
Pamela Mathison-Levitt is a disabled writer and homeschooling mom. Her poems reflect her love of nature, her Unitarian Universalist faith, and her experiences with mental and physical health conditions. Mathison-Levitt’s work has appeared in WWPH Writes, Mid-Atlantic Review, Exposed Brick Literary Magazine, Pen in Hand, Emerald Coast Review, Literary Mama’s blog and other publications. You can find her work on Facebook at Lines and Branches or on Instagram @pmmlevitt.
Featured image “Peaceful Trees with Snow after a Winter Storm” uploaded by photographed by FULBERT to be licensed via creative commons 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
