Deirdre Neilen, PhD: Here is a wonderful poem about remission and recovery. How miraculous to see and watch the formerly ill standing tall and working happily again. Here is "The Screen Door" -- for Elizabeth, by Virginia Boudreau, a retired teacher in Nova Scotia.
August morning, I lean back
on warm grass, drink coffee
laced with Baileys. Ants draw
aimless circles on tanned feet.
I watch you dip the bristles,
brush the wood, wipe freckled
hands on faded cutoffs.
An errant gull spirals overhead,
the bay glitters in the distance and
breeze seduces the ash leaves.
You are painting the new screen door;
later it will be carried down the lane
to your white cottage nesting in a drift
of wild tiger lilies, trails of roses.
Your strokes are sure and even,
swathes of brick slip from the brush,
bathe the naked wood, the whimsical
curlicues carved by a caring hand.
Your hair is all grown back now,
soft auburn restored to edges
of a floppy canvas hat.
Words come easily, catching up
on moments lost: the endless dark
hours, memories of winter, while
some persistent part of me remembered
two summers ago: the diagnosis.
Then, last year, the green of your eyes,
the white of your skin, the shape of
your skull, and shoulder bones cutting
an old Aran knit sweater.
You wobbled, familiar paths to the shore
and wordless, I felt your wondering.
Now, watching you look for spots
the brush might have missed ...
the headiness fills me.