Waiting and watching

In some ways it's probably a lucky thing that I was born with cancer. If the tumours had started to grow later in my life -say at the age three or four, or even eight or nine- I would have been aware of the many things that happened to me, as well as being witness to the effects on my parents. I would have watched the blackness creep stealthily into my world as the tumours multiplied in my right eye, robbing it of all vision. I would have sensed the shock and great sadness of my parents when the diagnosis was made. I would have stood by helplessly as my mother grew thinner and thinner and my father more distracted and worried. Maybe I would have shared their fear of death. As it was, the only thing I might have been aware of as a thirteen month old baby was the frustration of bumping into invisible objects on my right while crawling around on the floor.

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Doubt takes hold of the pen,
the nib shrivels, the ink clogs,
no words will flow from it now.
'You can't write, you're no good,'
the critic's voice is loud and firm.
The hand wilts, the fingers shake,
the pen drops lifelessly to the blank page.

'You ought to be an author,'
my Grandma's words, soft and eager.
But is it really possible?
The critic begins to shrink.
The hand reaches for the still pen
its shape and texture bring excitement.
The ink starts to flow, then gush
as pictures colour the page
and stories, sad and happy, are created
to be shared with all who care to read,
and those who want to know.

And as the ink flows, tension is released.
The dual purpose has been achieved:
Memories have found their colours
and goodbyes have finally been said.