I Called You Today

I CALLED YOU TODAY 

I called you today after I was reminded it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. 
You answered hurriedly and whispered like you do when you're in line at the market or Kohls.
You were at your six-month checkup and would call me when you were done. 
It wouldn't be long, you said. 
Today, I worried your breast cancer came back, and you didn't want to tell me.
Today, I worried you and Dad were home crying because you didn't know what else to do.
Today, I worried I hadn't called or visited enough, and months had passed since I said, "I love you."
Today, I worried the leaves are turning Thanksgiving colours, and I haven't driven the 45 minutes to see you since the summer. 
Today, my heart beat out of my chest with unyielding anxiety. 
I thought I would have to save your voicemails again like I did when you lost your hair so I could hear your voice whenever I wanted.
Today, I worried I’d have to preserve your best ALL-CAPS texts in a safe place whenever I needed a chuckle. 
You said you would call, it wouldn't be long.
I waited for one of your classic messages when you have nothing to say except that you're at home and Dad's at the gym, eventually and abruptly ending with OK, BYE.
Today, I worried you would tell me you had breast cancer for the second time. 
Hours passed. My throat tightened and burned. Tears filled my eyes just enough to blur my vision.
I called and you answered, breathless and happy.
You were on the golf course with Dad. Everything went great, you said. 
OK BYE.