To Heather

To Heather:

You may never read this, for I may never let you know it's been written. It will be enough that my thoughts will be out there, in the universe at large. Here I will get to say that I am sorry, and that the universe is wrong and unfair, and that I hate it for what is happening to you, for what is happeing to your body. I will get to say that you are seventeen! And that you should only be concerned with social studies homework, meeting me for soup, dumb boys and which of those dumb boy will be lucky enough to escort you to grad. I will use this medium to say that my heart broke when I heard you cry on the phone, because I knew why you were calling; that when you sobbed that you were a fighter, my heart, two pieces that used to be whole, shattered altogehter, so that it would never be the same again. I will allow myself to say that I wanted to cry, but wouldn't allow it, for even before you told me about your aversion to the head-tilt/shoulder-rub combo, I knew that I could only look upon you with the same smile on my face and joy in my heart, that I've always had for you.

You will not have to worry about one more person crying for you, over you or because of you. I will not be one more, in an unending line, of consoling pharses and apologies. You will not hear me whisper to others about you and your health, two ideas seemingly intertwined into one entity forever more. You will not see a fake smile plastered upon my face, or me veil my eyes when you are around.

I will be here for you always. I will make stupid jokes, I will tell rambling stories, I will entice you with soup and salty plum soda. I will answer my phone at all hours, to listen, to talk, to be silent... just to be. You will make stupid jokes, tell rambling stories, entice me with pie and tea. You will call at all hours, to talk, to listen, to be silent... just to be. Or you will not.

You will beat this and be healthy. Or you will not.

And I will love you, never will I not.