Postcards of Grief


For the last few months, I’ve noticed a new person/dog pair walking on my street. The dog is one of several all or mostly black medium-sized pooches. The person at first looked very old to me, but I soon realized she just looked like my mom: fuzzy head, pale skin, glasses.

I saw her on my way to the bus last week, and we exchanged pleasantries about the weather. She takes small, quick steps. I saw as we passed one another on foot that she really does have the hair of someone who has been through aggressive chemotherapy more than once. From time to time, I had thought about saying something to her about how I know or understand what cancer can do to a person, but no one wants to hear from me. My cancer patient died.

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