Raven
The engine echoes through the trees as I walk away. It grows quieter with every step until the woods swallow the sound completely.
He couldn’t stay.
I don’t blame him.
I couldn’t either.
Slipping my shoes off, I leave them in the grass before heading toward the creek.
The ground is still warm beneath my feet, the blades of grass soft against my skin. Early September has a way of pretending summer will last forever. Most of the leaves are still green, but every now and then one lets go, drifting lazily to the ground before the others are ready.
The creek runs steady beyond the tree line.
I’ve only known it in warmth. In spring, when the rain swelled it wide and fast, and the water rushed loud enough to drown out everything else. And in summer, when it settled into something slower, sunlight catching on the surface, turning it bright and careless.
I haven’t seen it frozen. I haven’t watched ice gather along the edges or snow settle over the rocks.
I thought I would.
I thought I’d see it through every season. That we’d stand here together when the leaves turned and when the first frost came.
I imagined there’d be small hands in the water one day. Laughter echoing off the banks. Wolf would be standing behind me, pretending he wasn’t worried they’d slip on the rocks.
I thought we’d have so much time.
The water moves past me, indifferent to what I assumed.
It’ll freeze.
It’ll thaw.
It’ll carry on into spring again.
The creek will see all of it.
I won’t.
I step down the small worn path to the flat rock near the water’s edge. This is where I sit when I need to think. The current whispers over the rocks, unchanged by everything that's changed in me. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t wait.
I lower myself onto the rock.
For a long time, I don’t cry.
I just sit as the doctor’s voice replays in pieces.
Aggressive.
Inoperable.
Weeks to months.
The words don’t feel real. They feel distant, like they belong to someone else.
I press my palm against my stomach. I thought this feeling was life. I thought this was a beginning.
I almost laugh at the cruelty of it.
The nausea. The exhaustion. The tenderness.
My body was growing something. Just not what I believed.
The first tear falls without warning.
It surprises me.
Then another follows.
I fold forward slowly, elbows resting on my knees, hands covering my mouth as the sound finally comes.
It isn’t loud.
It isn’t dramatic.
It’s low, pulled from somewhere deeper than my chest.
The creek keeps moving. The world keeps moving. Birds rustle in the trees overhead. And I cry until my ribs ache. Until my breath stutters. Until there’s nothing left to hold back.
I’m going to die.
Not someday. Not when I’m old and grey.
Weeks. Maybe months.
Soon.
I’m going to leave him. The thought hurts more than anything else. Not the pain. Not the sickness.
Samuel.
I lift my head and watch the creek.
The current slips around every rock in its path without resistance. It never wastes itself fighting what it can't move. It bends. It yields. Then it keeps going, finding another way forward.
It doesn't stop because the path changes.
Neither can I.
I don't want my last weeks to be machines and white walls and sickness layered on sickness. I don't want him remembering me like that.
I want him to remember this.
The sound of the water.
The warmth of the late afternoon sun against my skin.
The way the world holds its breath just before autumn takes it.
I press my fingers into the damp earth beside the rock.
The ground is cool.
Solid.
For the first time since the doctor said Stage IV, something inside me settles.
Not acceptance.
Not yet.
But direction.
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand and sit a little straighter.
The water keeps moving.
So will I.
One day soon, I'll sit here again.
Not because I'm breaking.
Because I'll know it's time.
And when that day comes...
I'll be ready.