A Poem for my mom by Peter Weston Miller

Cancer Doesn’t Care

Cancer doesn’t care. That’s who Cancer is.
Cancer doesn’t care how old you are.
Cancer doesn’t care how you add up or the trophies on your shelf.
Cancer doesn’t care whether you are a deep brown or a chalky beige reflection in the mirror.
Cancer doesn’t care about birthday cake or the color of your eyes.
Cancer doesn’t care if you listen to the Beatles, or the Blues, or the Beethoven’s.
Cancer doesn’t care who you love.
Cancer doesn’t care about you.
Cancer doesn’t care.
That’s who Cancer is.
But Cancer isn’t me.
I care about the days that make you dance and how your voice sings the Hallelujah in the Great Storm Is Over.
I care about your dreams that are still undreamt and how much your body hurt at the end.
I care about your love of licorice and sweet lemon drops and the longest loon songs.
I care about the “don’teverletgo” squeeze of your hand and the fire of faith burning endlessly through your eyes.
You see, I care about you more than any Cancer ever can.
More than any one lifespan.
Because Cancer can’t love.

But I can.