COPING

They're coping, though they didn't know how they would or if they could when first they heard the terrible word that opened up the ground, and blackness lay beneath.
The results, he said - his tone hiding anguish, his mind focused on causing as little alarm as possible while conveying the news that no one wants to give and no one ever wants to hear - had shown there was malignancy.
They're coping and she's put her hand on his shoulder after wheeling him into reception to be greeted with a smile by someone who's seen it all before too many times to count and gets through the sadness that comes in waves through the door by shutting off her thoughts and putting on that smile like a picture on the wall.
How are we doing today? she asks, knowing she'll be told Not so bad, thanks, but anyone can see in that grey, tired thinness - a scarcely-covered frame of bones - that Not so bad, thanks, is code for what's unspeakable, and even here is never said.
There are others in this room, and all have seen the ground open at their feet - empty, black, and sucking down all they'd thought would be.
So yes, they're coping best they can, each day with its rays of hope, soon smothered by the clouds.