Pink Ribbons


One lump or two?
Ma’am … your coffee?
One lump or two?
Such an innocent question uttered hundreds of times
in tea rooms, coffee houses, restaurants, airplanes.

Today, those words had the power
to bring her to her knees.
No amount of chamomile or honey capable
of soothing her pain.
She was drowning in a sea of sorrow,
fearful of what tomorrow would bring.

How could she face this new reflection,
scarred, disfigured?
What would she see reflecting in his eyes?
He said he would always love her, 
no matter what.
He said she would always be beautiful to him,
but this … this isn’t what crosses your mind, 
vowing in sickness and health.

Each day she’ll carry on,
with a stiff upper lip
and pink ribbons in her hair,
stuffing the prosthetic into her bra, 
no longer adorned with lace.

She’ll march with an army of women.

She’s grateful to be among the living, 
a survivor as she’s now known.  
But she misses her curves, 
even if sometimes they sagged.  
She misses the tingling of her nipples
when her husband held her in his arms.  
She misses feeling like a woman.
She misses feeling
whole.

Ma’am? One lump or two?

She replies,
Oh … no thank you.
No lumps for me.