Cancellation

She calls me from the hospital
an hour before we are supposed
to meet, and says in a thin, weak
voice that she can't make the date.
Her cancer is no longer in remission,
and she's at NIH, in a room, in a bed,
hooked up to monitors and tubes
providing medicines beyond me,
liquid foods. She says that she is
sorry and that she has a window
where she can see the tops of trees
that fill the stretch before the
highway begins, and curves away
in the direction of the restaurant
where we were to meet, and drink
martinis, eat light, discuss our lives,
our children, our mutual interests
and dislikes. I don't know her, not
really. We've exchanged e-mails,
a few phone calls. It was just a date,
a first meeting to see if there should
be a second or third, or perhaps
decide to never see one another
again. It happens in this fast world
of cyber dating, but I wasn't expecting
the possibility of death to interfere
with my fun, to bring me to tears
for someone I hardly know. I listen
to her voice on the phone as she
tells me that she can't make it, trying
to be upbeat, to spin it light and airy,
repeating that it's just a minor set
back. She mentions her kids, her yard,
the neighbor that will walk the dog. I am
nothing to her really, but for this single
moment in my life and time, I am
thethered forever to this stranger.