My oncology appointment was two hours ago. There’s a steady drip of wheelchairs, walkers,
and caregivers. I dip into a bowl of life savers and mini malted milk balls, take a juice, and wait. Behind
me is a painting that covers an entire wall. A gift in memory of a woman’s beloved--a collage of
figures, splashed with streaks of reds, yellows, blues. They hover over the edge of something,
maybe water. A woman points and whispers. I nod. Her bony legs are the size of a man’s wrist.
My body’s stiff. I stand and scroll through a touch screen--a showcase featuring patients who
suffer from an array of cancers. In it, a child rings a bell, a hospice patient rests her head on a
man’s shoulder. It would be nice to have that shoulder, to close my eyes. I bristle when, first thing,
an elderly man, his back bent like the curve of a cane, is asked his date of birth. I picture a waiting
room where no one has names, only badges: Hello, my name is DOB. A nurse gestures and asks
for my birthdate. I give her my name.
Originally published in Little Free Lit Magazine.
Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet and writer. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Quartet, Gyroscope, SWWIM, Thimble Literary Magazine, The Scapegoat Review, Rust &Moth, MER, and Midway Journal. She has work forthcoming in The Westchester Review, Does It Have Pockets, and Vita Poetica. She is the 2023 recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize and was nominated by ONE ART for a 2023 Pushcart Prize. Her micro-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online at https://www.harbor-review.com/what-i-didnt-know-i-didnt-know. In past lives, she was a journalist and taught English at Owens Community College and Lourdes University, in Ohio. For nearly a decade she was a docent at the Zekleman Holocaust Center near Detroit. More at lindaladerman.com.