Welcome from Amy D. Unsworth

Language, Literature, Learning & Life.

How it happened

Much of the contents of the box were no longer treasure,
maps and diner placemats from long forgotten journeys by car
pamphlets and sights to see and contests by mail.
In her diary, the days marked mostly by weather, warm today,
much cooler this week, in a hurried hand. Thomas
MIA since June, the war department notified Elizabeth
on July 8th, no word since, the first entry for the year 1945
and in August in so few words, we've offered terms to Japan
and then a few days later, Papa's home early and off tomorrow
to celebrate the signing of the treaty--VJ day,-- the boys
will be home soon,and Papa's finishing the glass front cabinet
before he must go back to work. Then fall, with telegraphs
and holiday wishes, and the year ends, as it must, with snow.

Post-date Billing

All night I toss and turn, dreaming of the doctor's office,
of the treatment room, of the intersection of the IV and
my veins. The half-awake sleep of chemotherapy
floating between the mind's desire to dream of health
and the physical body's agony. There are days I can't
remember: the first day of treatment, the day I refused
any drug they offered to calm my stomach, to relieve
anxiety, pain. The day I swore at the onocologist surrounded
by his interns. I do remember the following morning, the suprise
when the doctor asked if I had decided to live. I don't remember
asking to die. Last night, months from treatment, the anxiety
came back. This time, the dream of sickness, awaking
to health, to scars healed and fading, to home. I cannot
drink enough water to wash the taste from my mouth.