This year I have just a single gift for you

and it's in this box that isn't very big.

I need to warn you though,

it's not the book you were hinting for,

and it's not a cashmere sweater

that would look great and keep you warm.

It's not a fancier hat

to hide your chemo baldness,

It's not the set of opera CDs

you could listen to all day

to forget you're feeling so bad.

It's not luxury chocolates or vintage wine.

It's just a cure -

oh, I wish. No it's a chance

if you do these painful things.

I hope you can, I love you so,

I'll pay the costs, I'll bear the pain

of briefly extending your life.

What other gift can I give you

that would matter at all this year?

Socks for someone who's dying?

My dear, I admire your taste

in music, in wine, in books.

I love feeling you in cashmere

no matter how thin you might get.

I love your long plain feet.

Let me please your senses,

dress you, delight you.

We are all dying, let us give

to each other while we can.

Christine Shadle, Southampton