Today she is lucky enough to be seated in chair seven at the infusion center. 
 
It is the same gray pleather recliner as the other thirteen on the fourth floor, but chair seven has become her favorite. 
 
It sits by the window facing the northern hills. Highways wind in the distance, full of little cars that putter by, oblivious to her gaze following their paths. 
 
From here she can see her tree. 
 
Its crown of chartreuse, yellow, and orange leaves stretches toward the clear blue sky, tall enough that the top branches remain visible from her chair. 
 
She first noticed the tree in January. It stood naked then, its mottled bark peeling, its many empty hands frozen in the cold morning air, ready to receive (or let go) of whatever the heavens might bestow. Surrendered to the season, trusting the next would come. 
 
Will I recognize you in the spring? she asked. 
 
Her appointments soon became punctuated by the tree's appearance, and they began to converse with each other. How have you been? A shake of a branch in the sun. You look good today. A bashful sway. 
 
She watched the barren branches bud with light green tips and was greeted by a fuller show of leaves on her next visit. Wide leaves fluttered in the breeze. Tiny birds darted in and out with twigs and treasures in their beaks. 
 
The staff at the front desk now recognize her, though they still ask for her name and date of birth before directing her to the waiting area. She has grown accustomed to sitting quietly with the other patients until her turn comes. Everyone keeps to themselves, reading books, scrolling on phones, staring out windows. Do they see my tree? she wonders. 
 
By summer the tree was practically showing off. It stood proud, solid in the earth, thick with leaves so dense she could no longer see through it. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly in the thick of July, but the tree was unfazed, its shade below providing a cool respite for those who visited.  
 
Her scans show the nodules in her lungs have grown slightly larger, though not enough to qualify for surgery yet. For now her oncologist says they will continue to monitor, continue the infusions. For now, this is the best case scenario. 
 
The tree's leaves have begun their autumn ballet. She watches a few break away and spiral to the ground. At its feet, fallen leaves gather in yellow and orange, little jewels meeting the cool brown earth. As her IV is taped down and the nurse prepares the medication, she admires her tree. You are beautiful, even in loss. 
 
Daylight shortens and shadows begin to stretch longer into the evenings. The air turns cool and crisp, and she looks forward to orange pumpkins on stoops, to sweaters layered for dinners out with friends, to the winter lights that will soon scatter through the towns. 
 
Her tree will shed its last golden leaves and stand bracing against gray skies. She will hold on, choosing joy both within and beyond the walls of this place. 
 
They will wait together to return to green.