this year, Thanksgiving came in a box.
with a price tag and
microwave directions,
since she could not muster the strength
to cook.

there was unfamiliarity
in the shaking of her hands,
the scarf twisted turban-style about her head
and in the gaps,
glimpses of a defeated baldness.

"i hope she's cured.
or it's quick."
said my dad.

and she fades away into her armchair,
always knitting
her pantsuits generously bagging from her frame
as she tapers away
into an old woman that my dad eyes with pity
and disbelief.
age is claiming her with measurable advancement
cancer is a fickle thief
will it be caught and forced to return its takings?
or shall it slip away,
rogue and commandeering
stirring an inner mutiny
and taking, taking everything in due time
until all that's left to seize
is her life?