Winter 2025 - Vol. 22, Issue 1

A small table, a quiet café, two old friends, a rare treat.

“Life gets so busy,” you say. I nod in agreement.

We hold our coffees between our palms

self-soothing, self-medicating, self-deprecating

as we catch up on the latest news of spouses, children, pets.

Your promotion is going well.

“It’s stressful,” you say, “but I can’t complain.”

But you do. And I say it’s okay—
even good stress is still stress.

Your family is planning another vacation.

Maui this time, maybe Aruba.

It doesn’t matter. You have frequent flyer miles,

and your in-laws are covering the five-star hotel.

I say, “Send pictures!” like I’m dying to see
every single photo.

Your kids won awards and scholarships, again.

Your rescue dog got Best in Show, again.

Your sweetheart brought home flowers for no reason at all, again.

And you’ve lost ten pounds without even trying.

“I can’t imagine where you lost them,” I say. “You’re perfect.”

People pay for bodies like yours.

“Oh,” you say, “we’re both beautiful with great families

and great lives. Amiright?”

I smile and run my finger around the rim of my coffee mug.

What can I share that won’t ruin the mood?

          Last night, my husband said that when he picked up
         my prescriptions, all the pharma techs greeted him by

          name. Maybe not.

          Funny story—when I was at the psychiatrist last week…

          I’ll save that one.

          Here’s a good one: Yesterday, I took only one nap before

          bed. No, it sounded better in my head.

I say, “Things are going about the same. Two steps forward,
one step back. Thanks for asking.” Then I blanche. Did you actually
ask how I was doing? Do you remember I’m ill?

My illness should not define me, but sometimes it does.

A version of attached poem was first published in Wishbone Words.