Early Easter Morning

by Jane Pfefferkorn

I grieve
for him whole,

before three doctors denied
the nasty nasal cancer,
the cancer that Mohs couldn’t clear,

before he said, “Hit it with everything,”
and the surgeons slashed
the nose and cheek from his face,
severing half the nerves to his mouth,

before anesthesia fried his mind
and radiation blasted his brain,

before the accelerated dementia
destroyed a David in the courtroom,
drove him to leap from a moving car
and deposited him in Memory Care,

until the pink of first light nudges
me to gather myself and go to him,
turning my thoughts

to the sparkle
in his eyes when he sees me,

the chortle in his voice
as he tries to call my name,

the touch of his hands in mine
when he struggles to stand and embrace me,

the tingle when his half–mouth
touches my lips

the joy as his entire body shouts
the words he once spoke,
“We are so lucky; We are still in love.”