They told Andrea Gibson
she had cancer,
two years.
it was in one of those rooms,
the charts,
the too straight smiles,
the cheap ceiling tiles
yellowing like old teeth,
the stink of bleach and plastic
trying to wipe the whole thing clean.
everybody calls it tragedy.
sure.
they are not wrong.
but there is another word for it.
a gift.
numbers burning on the wall
like a motel sign
you finally notice
at four in the morning.
most people go their whole lives
pretending the clock
is just a rumor.
they drink at it,
work at it,
scroll at it,
**** at it,
but they never look.
if we were lucky,
we would not get the cancer.
no.
we would just get the truth.
a voice that does not
sugar anything:
listen,
this is all you have
and it is not much.
it is leaking away
right now
while you stand there
lying to yourself
about how later
will be different.
you know you are dying.
of course you do.
you are not stupid.
you just haul that fact
up the ladder
into the attic
with the Christmas junk
and the jeans from ten years ago
you swear you will fit again.
when does time
finally get under your skin?
a month left?
fine, you shake and scream.
a year?
you write a list,
lose it in a drawer.
five years, ten?
you shrug,
crack another beer,
tell the kid inside your head
we start tomorrow.
out the window
there is always a hawk
or something like it,
sharp-eyed,
circling,
patient as a landlord.
call it loss.
call it the end.
call it the thing
that has been waiting
since you were born.
you stare at the floor,
the fridge light,
your phone.
you look everywhere but up.
the real gift is ugly
and it is simple:
you remember
you are temporary.
you feel it in your back teeth.
you wake up
and the coffee hits harder,
the air has a bite to it,
the grocery store aisle
looks like holy ground
for half a second.
then the question walks in,
sits across from you
like an old dog
that knows your name:
what would you do
if you knew
you were gone in five years?
no angels show up.
no preacher.
no soft piano.
all you get
is a calendar,
cheap paper,
a pen that skips,
and the guts
to look straight at it.
that is the gift.
they hand it to you,
wrapped in bad news.
tear the paper off.
take it.
try, for once,
to live like you know
you do not stay.
live like the hawk
already has your name.
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 1:32 PM UTC
They told Andrea Gibson
she had cancer,
two years.
it was in one of those rooms,
the charts,
the too straight smiles,
the cheap ceiling tiles
yellowing like old teeth,
the stink of bleach and plastic
trying to wipe the whole thing clean.
everybody calls it tragedy.
sure.
they are not wrong.
but there is another word for it.
a gift.
numbers burning on the wall
like a motel sign
you finally notice
at four in the morning.
most people go their whole lives
pretending the clock
is just a rumor.
they drink at it,
work at it,
scroll at it,
**** at it,
but they never look.
if we were lucky,
we would not get the cancer.
no.
we would just get the truth.
a voice that does not
sugar anything:
listen,
this is all you have
and it is not much.
it is leaking away
right now
while you stand there
lying to yourself
about how later
will be different.
you know you are dying.
of course you do.
you are not stupid.
you just haul that fact
up the ladder
into the attic
with the Christmas junk
and the jeans from ten years ago
you swear you will fit again.
when does time
finally get under your skin?
a month left?
fine, you shake and scream.
a year?
you write a list,
lose it in a drawer.
five years, ten?
you shrug,
crack another beer,
tell the kid inside your head
we start tomorrow.
out the window
there is always a hawk
or something like it,
sharp-eyed,
circling,
patient as a landlord.
call it loss.
call it the end.
call it the thing
that has been waiting
since you were born.
you stare at the floor,
the fridge light,
your phone.
you look everywhere but up.
the real gift is ugly
and it is simple:
you remember
you are temporary.
you feel it in your back teeth.
you wake up
and the coffee hits harder,
the air has a bite to it,
the grocery store aisle
looks like holy ground
for half a second.
then the question walks in,
sits across from you
like an old dog
that knows your name:
what would you do
if you knew
you were gone in five years?
no angels show up.
no preacher.
no soft piano.
all you get
is a calendar,
cheap paper,
a pen that skips,
and the guts
to look straight at it.
that is the gift.
they hand it to you,
wrapped in bad news.
tear the paper off.
take it.
try, for once,
to live like you know
you do not stay.
live like the hawk
already has your name.
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