Postcard Writing

My heart beats along with the ticking of the clock. With each minute that passes, my mind grows that much more weary. "The doctor will be in with the results in just a moment," chimes the nurse. How can someone who works in such a place be able to produce a smile each and everyday. My heart speeds up as the doorknob turns. His eyes say it all. My eyes are flooded with tears. I can taste their saltiness on my lips. He pats me on the back, saying, very unconvincingly, "It's gonna be alright, we are going to do everything in our power to beat this." Images begin flashing through my head. Me and mom in the backyard playing soccer. Then all of a sudden she is in a hospital bed, her long blonde hair replaced with a pale scalp, her face showing the pain and sorrow she is experiencing. And then darkness. How am I going to tell my father, the same man that just lost his wife of 30 years to this, that his only daughter shares the same fate with his dead wife. The nurse escorts me out of the room. Into the lobby, on the elevator, time passes with no hesitation. In my car driving home, my thoughts are filled with what I'll miss out on, the people I'll leave behind and the things I will never experience. But a thought goes through my head. I can either give in to the illness, like my mom did, or I can fight it. A smile creeps across my face. A smile of strength. A smile of understanding. A sign of hope.