“What's new?” I asked.
“Glioblastoma multiforme.” A Google search revealed six months for her to live.
June. I asked, “When you think about dying, are you afraid?”
“I don't know," she said. "Because what comes next...is nothing."
July. She said, "I don’t have enough lounge wear.”
August. I answered, “I’m jealous of my sister’s pretty lounge wear.”
She said, “You be pretty. I’ll take comfort.”
Our conversation lagged, her email buried ever deeper in my inbox, beneath coupons, yoga studio updates, and water bills.
October. "Now where were we?" I asked.
She didn't answer.