Every Day

She always used to cut her hair
really short
said she liked it better that way,
more comfortable under her shaitel.

I always had the feeling that
she didn't mean it
that she just said it
because she stopped believing she was beautiful.

She finally decided to grow it out
was excited to see how long
it would grow,
to get it cut and styled, colored.

But then she cut it all off
when the cancer came,
decided not to wait for it to fall out
in tufts.

Said she's okay with it,
she's losing weight
because she can't stomach anything
she sees that as a plus.

I watch her fumbling with her mask,
she has to wear it on the plane.
I wonder what the other passengers think,
if they're dumb enough to think they could catch her germs.

I wonder about the air she breethes
and if it's killing her slowly,
or if the cancer is doing that
all by itself.

I see her eyes
above the mask
they're smiling at me,
telling me that she is okay.

For once I want to be the one
to comfort her
and not the other way around,
tell her everything will be okay.

I lay next to her trying to sleep
the TV flickering
she asks if it's bothering me
if I can't sleep.

But her presence is comforting,
I fall asleep wishing
I could wake up next to her
every day.