Before you wake

I worry

And then straighten up around the couch,

I fold the blanket,

making sure that the things you will need are in reach

I bring fresh water and a clean glass

To the little black table on wheels

that holds the bottles of pills

some that will help you feel better

and some that will make you feel worse

but hopefully stop the cancer in its tracks

For a while

When you wake

I worry

That your body will flush as it sometimes does

And your heart will race

And you will need to sit down quickly

and wait until

This tortuous morning ritual subsides

When we talk

I worry

That the challenges of the disease

and the difficulties of the treatment

make the thought of a full meal

to break your fast so unappealing

That you will only endure

A small portion

so you can take the morning assortment of pills.

When we cuddle

I don’t worry

I am present

Last meal of the day done

Dishes being splashed and sprayed

With a low rumble from the kitchen

My arm around your shoulder

Just taking it all in

Neither replaying the tiny terrors that filled the day

Nor those unknown ones that will surely surface tomorrow.

My soul and yours

Cuddling on the couch

No past no future

An endless embrace