6 months, as blessing

In the body, cancer sprouts a million tiny pink buds underneath the skin. Inside each cell, a hard green seed softens, germinates. Closed petal, hard pollen becomes a crumbled gold that ripens into an ache to become honey one day. Sweet, maple-veined, the arteries end in a garden—red thistle. If given the chance, the bark-like flesh can’t resist committing nutrients to bring blossoms. It’s more than just human nature to bring new vectors of pink: dogs have grown rose-cut glass tumors in gut lining like a wedding ring misplaced between couch cushions, cats with a string of grandmother’s pearl-colored lumps down the throat. In six months, the axial tilt shifts, hordes of birds drag their songs across continents. At six months in the womb, a fetus still has skin the color of a ruby and is only beginning to smooth out, barely forming the soft structures to feel pain one day. When the diagnosis is named, six months becomes a sacred number, added to the end-time prophecies to be fulfilled with dutiful glory. Weren’t we always meant to praise the bush when it catches fire? Weren’t we always meant to be a multiplying—a vessel for growing light? Two weeks shy of spring when your name becomes a hum of mourning, something already moves in the dirt, shoots spreading, seedlings brimming with sap, a sour yellow bud in the lawn opening into a bell.