I can't open the box.

In the box, sits three months--
Three months of hope,
Three months of planning,
Three months of congratulations,
Three months of "you're going to be great parents,"

Three months of Her.

And when I look
At the bend of the bow,
The tie of the knot,
The crinkled, colored wrapping,
I see the crumpled shape
Of the woman I love,
Whose love is too great
To bear.

I see the weak, wavering smile
Of the woman I love
Who worries that I worry
As she wastes away.

I see love,
Measured in pain,
Measured in agony,
Measured in weeks upon weeks
Trying to keep Her healthy
As the woman I love
Lives love, breathes love,
Weaponizes love,
Fighting her body at every turn
For Her.

And I'm so scared, that my tears
Will shatter the remnants
Of our broken family,
So I pick up the pieces,
I snatch up the future,
And I pack, carefully.

I tuck the corners around
Fifty years of struggling,
Of cakes, and arguments,
Of sense and nonsense,
Folding, and creasing, and smoothing,
Until, from the outside,
It just looks like a box.

—We dreamt of a lifetime
And came home with a box.