The List

His walls were lined with gifts from patients that
had passed – a painted mug that
read “catch a big one,” with a purple fish
along the side; a hand-sewn
doll that had blood-red pigtails made of yarn
and wore a dress made from the
maker’s hospital gown.
He said I had, at best, a few more years
before the cancer worked its
way past my breasts and into other organs.
He started listing drugs and
procedures, but my only thoughts were on
my list and items from it
that would have to go un-done.

I wrote the list before my diagnosis,
an exercise to help me
find some direction in my life, some kind
of order. Sitting in this
bar I think back – I wrote the list in that
left corner of the room, a
lit cigarette between my lips and beer
that I had not paid for, that
was always “on the house.” The bartender,
Ritchie, was always sweet to me.
I wonder if he’ll miss me when I’m gone,
I wonder if he'd notice.