Tomorrow

I have a vivid memory of pumping my legs furiously on the swing, my best first-grade pal Kathryn keeping pace beside me, the crackling, almost-visible energy around our little bodies building to a crescendo as we sing at the top of our voices, "Oh the sun'll come OOOOUT, TOMORROW, bet your bottom dollar that TOMORROOOOOOOOOW, there'll be sun..."

Since then, I've often thought about that cheesy song on the eve of big events. More than once, I tossed about in bed, thinking that after tomorrow, my life would never be the same. I'd bury my Mama. I'd be married. I'd graduate from law school. I'd have a son. (Eli was the only child with a scheduled delivery date; the girls kept me guessing).

I've never, ever stared at the ceiling, wishing for sleep, wondering what it will feel like to recover from a double mastectomy. I've never marked a night with the simultaneous thought of everything I stood to gain, yet everything I'd have to lose, with the removal of my breasts. But Susan has. Tomorrow is her day; the day she has fought for months to bring about; enduring round after round of brutal chemotherapy in order to make the cancer operable. Tomorrow is the day after which nothing will ever be the same. For the better, and the worse.

So this time, Susan, I'm singing for you. I'm in that swing again, pumping my legs as hard as I can, pointing my toes, willing my legs to grow so I can touch the limbs of the nearby tree. The sun will come out. I can already see it as it peaks through the branches.