May. An actual email hid between the LinkedIn message and the so-and-so-liked-your-Facebook-post. Chris, a long-missing friend, had updated her address.
“What’s new?” I asked.
“Glioblastoma multiforme.”
Google filled in details. I calculated a six-month prognosis.
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.”
My siblings visited that summer. Evenings, we changed into sweats to hang out after dinner. My sister swept down the stairs in a gown worthy of Dionne Warwick, her entrance all bosomy and fabulous. We applauded.
August. I said, “I’m jealous of my sister’s pretty lounge wear.”
Chris 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.
“What’s new?” I asked.
“Glioblastoma multiforme.”
Google filled in details. I calculated a six-month prognosis.
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.”
My siblings visited that summer. Evenings, we changed into sweats to hang out after dinner. My sister swept down the stairs in a gown worthy of Dionne Warwick, her entrance all bosomy and fabulous. We applauded.
August. I said, “I’m jealous of my sister’s pretty lounge wear.”
Chris 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.
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