The beauty of it being nearly six years is the ability to forget; to isolate oneself from the truth of what happened.
And from the truth of what could happen.
The ugliness of it being nearly six years is not in the ability to forget; but in the expectation that you should forget. Count your blessings, the chorus sings! Be thankful for that you have! Just simply forget about it and move on.
The problem, however, is that cancer is not some sort of grudge that needs to be forgiven. It is a not a petty little fight with a neighbor or a betrayal by a boyfriend. It is not something that was done to Lily nor is something that happened in a past moment.
Cancer is our poltergeist; a ghostly neighbor that is often quiet, but then rattles some windows in the night, flickering the light, playing tricks with the mind.
This morning on a normal, regular plain jane Tuesday, the haunting came. I overheard Lily tell her sister that because of her brain, she could not run in place. Chloe told Lily she was all better now--my four year old consoling her older sister about brain tumors. My not-quite-seven-year-old spoke with her jaw clenched about how much she hated running in place, because it made her shaky and insecure.
And then she cried, nearly six years later.
I felt like the ghost was slamming doors shut again.