The news is cancer

Lumps resting inside my breasts like a fetus in the womb 

With months to live I am losing this battle 

My son is only five.

I wonder if he will remember when I held him in her arms so tight.

When he was hurt and I kissed his bandage

When he cried and I wiped his tears

Or will he only remember the tears I shed at night?

Or the times I couldn’t hold my lunch down in front of him?

Will he remember my long brown hair that he used to comb for me?

Or will he just remember when mommy looked like an alien with blue veins?

My son is only five. 

Will he remember the times I read him books before bedtime?

Or the times he fell asleep in my arms?

Will he remember how he would crawl into bed with me or just the bed with all the wires and cords?

Will he only see me with IVS and needles pushed into my veins?

Or will he see the jewelry he would always play with as it hung on my body?

Will he remember hospital as home instead of white picket-fenced colonial?

Will he remember when I taught him to ride his bike without training wheels?

And rides in our old four-door Volkswagen?

Or will he only remember riding in the truck with all the beeps and sirens to where he now considers home?

My son is only five.

Will he remember the spirit I once had when he sees my body laying cold in the mahogany casket lined with red satin?

Will my face be replaced with the image of shrunken cheeks, yellow teeth, pale face, and lips so blue?

Will my 34-four year old body be switched with the 90-year old one I now have?

Will he forget the smell of my perfume and only smell the stench of chemicals that surrounds me?

Will he remember my voice, my laugh, my smile? 

Will he remember how much I loved him or will that too be forgotten like our world before cancer?

I am sorry for all the bad memories he is sure to hold in his heart 

My son is only five.

And I am sorry for that too.