I jest that I learned to fight from a whole team of martial arts masters, at least a dozen. And it's not untrue. But at the heart and soul of things, I learned how to fight from you.
And I, having no customs of my own on the day I left home, sorted through yours. I chose to keep your shabbos candles. Not in the halachic way, not all the time - but in the way you think of family when you light them.
I chose the way you talk to G-d. I chose your harsh defiance of a world that can't keep up with powerful women, that gets in our way with words that no one ever had a right to speak to you. And I chose the way you laughed when you could have believed them.
Dear Mom. I've see the machines they hook you up to. But I've never seen anyone set one of those machines on the treadmill console for a seven mile run. And I believe that one day they'll look back on all the cancer treatments, quote in medical journals what you learned on your own over fifteen months ago. They'll prescribe half-marathons alongside chemo treatments, and the thousands of people whose lives you helped save will write you postcards on their birthdays and call to say thank you.
Like they did for your father. I think they'll write books about you.
So keep kicking cancer's ass.
We're reworking the impossible. Rewriting the world with our own brand of empowerment. On our blog posts. On the news. We're proving them wrong together, time and again. While you're there fighting.
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