Cindi Rockwell Poet Prose

Monochromatic Madness

The uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room.
The doctor's silk tie that reflects the tubes of artificial lighting.
The endless vials of blood they draw from my baby's arm.
The area of her arm where the cancer chews hungrily beneath the skin leaving a trail of destruction.
The "PAST DUE" stamped on hospital bills.
Scrubs worn by nurses in the chemo department.
My lips after biting back sobs when her hair falls out in clumps.
My husband's hand when he releases mine for a minute because I'm squeezing too hard.
My eyes in the mirror after yet another sleepless night.
The world I live in is a crimson hell since my daughter was diagnosed with lymphoma.

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Tom Quigley July 25, 2016 at 5:12 PM The families of critically ill kids are some of the most amazing people I see every day, making the best out of true awfulness. True heroes. Cindi Rockwell July 25, 2016 at 5:53 PM She is 23 but lives at home and even when she's 43, she'll still be my baby. My heart is broken.