No shouting. No High-Fives, barely breathe whatever emotion you feel upon reading my next words. No congratulations, nothing loud. More prayers, more wishes, maybe–that’s all this moment will allow for.
Mom’s white cell count was down to zero. This evening, a nurse practitioner crept softly in the room to let her know…she has 15 white cells. She practically whispered it. Downplayed it. Not a victory celebration. “We’re looking for 500. But wanted you to know.”
Could it be working? It’s a week too soon to say. So we will say nothing. Just accept the information. Here’s that wish, blow the dandelion fuzz, let if drift. Shout it to God maybe, but only from the depths of the quiet of my soul, so the bad things that happen in the world can’t hear and steal it away.
I will take 15. Thank You for 15.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.