There she sits twirling her hair round her finger
Her face and smile as luminous as the iridescent moon
Unaware of her condition
Two months later there she sits
Still unaware
Her face in now sunken and pale like a bride’s billowing veil
She no longer occupies the seat
She is aware
That she is hanging in thin air

There she lies
Swarmed by a sea of tubes and IV’s
The machine they say that will make her feel better only has her thinking of the large machine as a large white coffin
Her white coffin
They are aware
That there is no hair for her ribbons

She cries wanting the feel of the waves that once lay on her back
The red tides that pooled on her shoulders; gone
She is aware
That there is no place for ribbons in her hair

Feathery wisps of red stroke her face as the years of chemo are done
The torturous medicine that had made her deter away from food
In fright she would empty the contents of her stomach as well as her stomach itself
A halo surrounds her head as she walks away from the hospital bed
She is aware
That she now has ribbons in her hair
Pink to be precise