SCATTERING MOTHER'S ASHES

Faced with your own mortality
body inexorably crumbling,
easily bruised,
with a long, hard line of operations behind you
(no more, you sigh),
almost unconsciously feeling for new growths,
bigger growths,
fleetingly wincing at internal equivalents,
battling (your word) to find the energy,
the energy to build up your energy,
to attain the self-imposed minimum body strength,
that would give your system the necessary basis
for the planned alternative treatment
of injection after injection,
for weeks,
to give some chance that they'll work
(because, no more chemo, you said),
to give your last chance a chance.

Faced with only slim options,
you turn to me.
You want me to know
"I'm ready to scatter mother's ashes now".