LatinosUSA

The sun sets lower—
September’s to blame—
cooling a hazy breeze
to a calm stillness.
Cancer runs in my family.
Autumn always brought the news.
It wasn’t spring or summer;
diagnosis rolled into fall.
This year, no such news—
fingers crossed.

It was a Saturday drive,
nothing special—
hills rising,
sappy love songs playing—
Darla would butcher the lyrics.
We laughed.
She coughed.
She’d been coughing a lot back then.

We took back roads,
long talks winding
through rain-slicked turns.
She had a lot to say;
my voice just got louder
to keep up.

Then the breeze eased,
changing seasons
and reasons to stay.

She talked about work,
a coworker—Jan—
I think it was—
had Darla all riled up.
She coughed.

I didn’t think to ask
if she was okay.

I looked at the road,
heard every word,
but I only listened to some.
I picked which ones to believe,
and which words made
her red ears steam.

Then she told me—
what killed me: she had cancer.
Her doctor gave her a year.
I parked at an outlook.
A haze hid my tears, and a breeze
concealed my sniffles.

She didn’t want to tell me,
knowing I’d listen,
not just nod, but really listen,
and fall apart.
She coughed.

I doubled over.
She dropped to a knee.
She said it’d work out.
She coughed.

That’s her cough.
“How long?” I said,
grabbing her hand.

She dabbed her eyes.
“Supposed to be six months,” she said, her voice soft.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”
We stood.

Her face cracked.
“Because I couldn’t bear to see you cry.”
“And yet, I am,” I said.
My forehead puckered.
“I’m crying over you.”

She twisted her ring.
“I took an alternative to chemo.”

“You and your experimental—”

“It worked,” she said.

I met her gaze.
“I don’t understand.”

“I said supposedly.”

“And?”
I arched a brow.

“I’m cancer-free.”

“Yes,” I said with relief.

Darla coughed.

I scratched my neck,
eyes on her lips.

“Relax.”
She dropped her hands.
“Jan gave me a head cold.”

My lips lifted.

“Don’t,” she said, shaking her finger.
“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.”

“I love you. Can I say that?”
I took her hand.

She rested her hands on her hips.
“I could hear anything.”
A grimace crossed her lips.

I raised my hands,
leaned back,
“I love you.”

“That’ll do,” she said, smiling.

“And next time you have cancer—tell me.”

She winked. “What next time.”

Link to my website: https://writeovercoffee.blog/