The Unlikely Buddha

The sun slanted through the hospital window, dappling the sheets where she lay. Five years, it had been. Five years since that lump, a cruel betrayal in the smooth landscape of her breast, announced its unwelcome arrival. We were young, she a lab coat scientist in the gleaming sterile world of the hospital, our son a toddling whirlwind barely past one. Hope, back then, bloomed like an impossible rose in the face of the storm. Chemo's icy grip, the radiation's harsh embrace, we weathered them together. Nausea clawed at her throat, but my hand was a constant anchor in the churning sea. A tiny dot, like a misplaced freckle, tattooed on her skin became a grim, yet precious, landmark. Victory seemed close, tangible. Work, life, parenthood - we resumed the dance, her laughter like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Our son, blissfully unaware of the battle fought and won, grew under her watchful gaze. Each month, a ritual dance with needles and vials, the tumor markers waltzing ...

In the heart of Wrocław, where shadows play,  Stands a streetlamp, aged and worn with day.  No ordinary post, this iron dame,  A witch's cloak, her leafy frame. Her tangled hair, a verdant crown,  Reaches high, where owls fly down.  Emerald eyes, the lamplight's glow,  Gaze upon the streets below. She whispers secrets to the breeze,  Of cobbled squares and ancient trees.  Of lovers' sighs and laughter's chime,  Woven in the tapestry of time. The children sing, with wide-eyed glee,  Of Wrocław's witch, and mystery.    She watches over, ever kind,  A guardian spirit, with gentle mind. So next time you pass, beneath her bough,  Remember well, the watchful vow.  The Witch of Wrocław, standing tall,  Sees all, remembers all. But fear not, friend, her ancient gaze,  Holds only wisdom, through the haze.  A protector's love, in every spark,  The Witch of Wrocław, lights the dark. Unlikely Buddha 2023