WONDERS

Short Stories. Photos and pictures. Poems even.

NATALYA

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Someone strokes my hand,

softly.

Someone speaks to me,

softly.

Before:

I don’t like soft. I don’t like sweet.

I don’t want pity.

I am a queen of pity parties without help.

Later:

We spend hours, days, yes, months

in the treatment room in her office.

On the leather chair I watch her measure the dosage.

While the medicine drips quietly into my veins,

I nap, I read. I throw up on her floor.

We talk.

About sickness, health, fashion, yes, children.

We are mothers.

She maybe knows more about me than some others.

Now:

There is no pity in her voice, never was.

She is true to herself, genuine, sweet.

A lady.

I cherish it when

She speaks to me.

Softly.

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