At night he rolls on his side and peeks at me over his right shoulder.
"Scratch my back?" he asks, and I gently drag my fingernails down his spine and around his shoulder blades, bones that get sharper and sharper every day.
People love to describe cancer as a fight, but it isn’t. Fights have rules. So do wars. This is terrorism, and each of his visible bones is proof of the enemy within him, who isn’t fighting fair.
Nothing is fair. I know this, I say it all the time, but it’s a fact that offers no comfort.
All around this world people are brought to their knees every day. Little girls get kidnapped in Africa, little boys are casualties of a war they aren’t aware of, playing together on the beach when their lives abruptly and violently end.
The Earth spins on, triumph or tragedy, and in this bed my husband slips off into sleep, an entire world of chaos hiding within him.