Monday I’ll sit across the room from the chemo patients. I’ll wait and watch and listen to cancer and laughter and how those cookies on the white plate restore ground for only that moment after or before. * You
Day: February 28, 2020
The whole drive back, we say nothing. The dead, brown grasslands roll by, bleakly faded by the southern sun. Alan, out of drugs, dry-mouthed, and frowning, drowns in the glare of the bleached white road. Jack, holding a
Cath and Stan were flipping channels from their corduroy loveseat in the den when their eleven-year-old daughter Sybil came in and asked if they had a can of Campbell’s condensed cream of mushroom soup.