Photo Story: Manning the Tollbooth

When she died, the cancer remained. It floated around me like steam from a boiling kettle. It nosed its way between the pages of my book and under my pillow. It hid between the floorboards or behind my cereal bowl.

Through it all I manned the tollbooth at the edge of the cancer highway, filtering everything that passed by me: the beautiful flowers were greyer; the conversation that made me laugh was dull and banal afterward; good news was soured, bad news inconsequential.

The disease lingered like dirt under my fingernails and I wondered who the real cancer victim was.

 

 

Photo Credit: Michael Patrick