October Remission

It was early October.

I'd hoped it might be different—

cancer returned,

cursed a blessing,

healed unseen wounds.

Disoriented, 

I lay in warm sheets, 

fighting again. 

It would  end me—

unless I found a reason

to believe.

The last time I drank rum 

from a bottle in a brown paper bag,

I ended up in rehab.

Now, I’d die sober 

before drinking again. 

A prayer for Elissa

quivered on my lips.

Tears followed. 

She rode every loop with me.

Her voice rose—

sharp with the insurance company,

bills tossed

among get-well cards

overflowing the trash. 

Nurse Paisley checked in. 

She told me a dirty joke,

prayed for me,

soft pleas made me believe.

I laughed at everything, nothing—

twisted humor was all I had.

The doctor’s words 

left me shivering 

as the sun sank.

I was a stranger in my own flesh, 

almost gone in my head, 

uncertain the cancer would die 

before I turned forty-five.

Framed art of saints, sailors, 

lined beige walls, 

even lights,

Maxim pages turned.

Crimson, gold leaves 

gleamed under the streetlight.

A memory fed a smile—

meeting under the birch,

mistletoe,

a kiss.

I blinked through mistakes

until my lids weighed shut.

“Do you want to tell him?” 

Elissa's breath was quick.

“Tell me what?” I said.

Paisley hugged a clipboard. 

“It’s gone," she said, wiping tears.

“It’s gone!” Elissa kissed my forehead.

I gave her a wild glance. “You’re—"

“Serious,” Elissa said.

Paisley smiled, voice trembling.

“We waited to be sure.”

“That’s why I’ve been reading more,” 

I said,  stroking the stubble on my jaw.

“You’ve been hungry, too.” Paisley grinned.

The doctor entered, confirmed it—

I was cured.

Somehow, God found me.

"For the first time, in a long time,

I wanted to live," I said.

"Then let's live," she said,

brushing my cheek,

wearing my ring.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

X: AC0040