The Young OnesFirst the scans, biopsies, consultations. Now they are here. The young ones. It's their first time.
How frightened they are.
I saw them before, you know. Only a week or so ago. A cold sunny day. In the park. Running across the grass, carefree as children escaping from school. There's a white gazebo. They play inside it: frolicking, tussling, entangling themselves in one another. Their laughter skips across the lawn.
The grass is brown.
The air bites. We wear coats and wool hats. They come out in light sweaters. Don't they know it's cold? Feeling nothing, seeing nothing but each other. Closed to the world in a capsule of attentiveness.
Love is so arrogant.
The boy stands behind the girl. Her head lolls back, rests on his shoulder. He leans forward, burying himself in her hair, a great mane, dark and curly. They stand there silent, static. Dancers at the end of the ballet, waiting for the upwelling of applause, the lowering curtain.
How beautiful they are.
Here she's been told about side effects, has cut her hair. A nurse sits with them, writing on a clipboard. The girl signs forms. Her history.
Her history.....
......................................................................... Israel Lewis
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