by Patricia Jabbeh Wesley, Associate Professor of English
From my hospital room window, the city rises
through sky, steel city, three rivers, bridges,
broken and unbroken. A friend once told me
how this city has more bridges than any other
city, bridges so broken, they have become only
relics of the past. Outside my window, an old,
old city theater, where students from grade
schools stand in line for a visit, but my camera
lens is only for the homes on the far hill, homes,
I have heard to come down, sliding when heavy
rains overwhelm the city, but again, they rise,
like towers, and their owners again repossess them.
This third day, fifth round of chemotherapy opens
slowly with rain, fog, clouds, so the windowpanes
in my photo remind me that even a rainy day can
be beautiful as the beauty of hard times, the beauty
in the mystery of illness, the quiet of a hospital
room, when all you can do is reflect on the beauty
of your past life through raindrops against your
window glass, the beauty of homes against
the distant hills, bridge upon bridge, and the warmth
of my beddings, reminding me that I am still here.