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Grace

A cancer diagnosis, a positive pregnancy test, one last Sabbath dinner together

The Wake

The phone rings during dinner. The break in the silence is a relief, but I don’t move. In fact, I pretend I don’t even hear it. I’m fifteen and angry at my father for making me stay home again on a Friday night. He pretends not to hear the phone either.

Sunbeams

It’s true that I’ve driven through a number of red lights. But on the other hand, I’ve stopped at a lot of green ones I’ve never gotten credit for.

Glenn Gould

The Shed Skin

I ask if I have cancer. Somehow this still isn’t clear to me. When the doctor confirms that I do, it is an odd relief. I don’t want to have to explain to people that the “architectural pattern of my breast lesion features an intraductal papillomatous tumor.” Saying I have cancer will be easier, except when I tell my mother.

Prayer Wheel

A few days after our mother entered the hospital, my brother and I left for summer camp. Our mother, who could still sit up in bed, wanted us to go, and our father did too. We’d been looking forward all summer to sleeping in tents under the stars, rappelling down the sides of cliffs, and hiking along streams.

When This Is Over

When this is over, I’m going back to the West Coast. I’m going to find a cheap, humble house near the beach, get an old dog — maybe a retriever of some sort from the pound — and take long, thoughtful walks every morning at sunrise.