her disease. She reminds me of an insect scurrying along a slippery
edge, trying to keep abreast of water. I can’t bear to see her frantic motions.
My aunt stands up and slowly paces to the other side of the room, her arms pressed against her stomach. She moves toward an
older woman sitting quietly with folded hands. My aunt smiles at her. “What are you here for?”
Oh, the woman says, gazing at her for the first time. She did not notice my aunt creeping toward her with such fateful intention.
It’s not me, it’s my husband.
My aunt looks at her blankly.
He’s getting his radiation now, the woman says. It’s near his throat.
“Me, colon cancer.”
Oh, the woman murmurs.
“Yes. They took a large piece of my colon out two years ago.” My aunt nods as if she is trying to understand all this herself.
“They stapled me together and said I was completely cured. No need to worry, they said.” My aunt nods again. “Now it’s come
back, growing in my spine. The size of a grapefruit. But this time, it’s inoperable, they say.”
Oh, I am so sorry, the woman says.
“Yes. They don’t seem to understand this is the only life you have.”
No, they don’t.
“That is my niece over there. She just finished her first year of college.” The woman looks over at me and we both exchange
a weak flutter of smiles. “She’s always reading books.”
Uh-huh.
“She’s so good, driving me here each day.”
That is nice of her, the woman says.
I wrote my aunt a few times after I returned to my university in the fall. In one letter, I told her I had always imagined
we would have lunch together someday when I was older and could pick up the check. She wrote back that she liked that idea
and wondered what I would be like when I was older. I remember the person I was in college. I was naive and had a keen sense
of my own importance. When I wrote her that letter, I couldn’t quite believe our conversation would ever come to an end.
I looked through her old photographs not so long ago. My uncle allowed me into his library and invited me to sit down in his
chair. There was an unusual softening in him. He had little patience for people of my generation and often said we were spoiled
and didn’t appreciate everything our parents had given us.
There was one photograph of my aunt and uncle sitting on a bench in Washington Square in New York City. My aunt’s face is
as round as an apple, and she is bundled up in a soft brown coat with a fur-lined collar, her shoulder resting against my
uncle’s. My uncle wears a dark winter coat and tie, and they look like a happy, elegant couple, sitting close beside each
other, with their hands in their laps, and smiling.
You both look so young, I told my uncle.
We took a lot of pictures then, he said. Not so much later. He picked up the photograph and gazed at it for a moment before
he shook his head and put it down again. When you’re young, you have the energy to take pictures, he said.
I wake up, and it is four in the morning, the windows still dark. I have just met my aunt for the first time in several years,
and my mind is still tingling from her presence. I had felt such hope seeing her again.
In my dream, I am walking along a sloping field toward a group of strangers, and I see my aunt talking and laughing with a
glass in her hand. She is wearing the beautiful rose dress that we buried her in. The grass glows unnaturally against the
darkening sky, and I walk toward my aunt with an expanding sense of unreality, my lungs filling with cold, fragrant air. When
I look down, there is the pink shimmer of her dress, which I am now wearing, her pearl necklace looped around my wrists.
The last time I spoke to my aunt, it was near Christmas. It was snowing, and the whiteness outside seemed symbolic. Everyone
said that if there was a miracle, it would be today. But you don’t believe in God, Philip said to me. So there can be no miracles.
My
edge, trying to keep abreast of water. I can’t bear to see her frantic motions.
My aunt stands up and slowly paces to the other side of the room, her arms pressed against her stomach. She moves toward an
older woman sitting quietly with folded hands. My aunt smiles at her. “What are you here for?”
Oh, the woman says, gazing at her for the first time. She did not notice my aunt creeping toward her with such fateful intention.
It’s not me, it’s my husband.
My aunt looks at her blankly.
He’s getting his radiation now, the woman says. It’s near his throat.
“Me, colon cancer.”
Oh, the woman murmurs.
“Yes. They took a large piece of my colon out two years ago.” My aunt nods as if she is trying to understand all this herself.
“They stapled me together and said I was completely cured. No need to worry, they said.” My aunt nods again. “Now it’s come
back, growing in my spine. The size of a grapefruit. But this time, it’s inoperable, they say.”
Oh, I am so sorry, the woman says.
“Yes. They don’t seem to understand this is the only life you have.”
No, they don’t.
“That is my niece over there. She just finished her first year of college.” The woman looks over at me and we both exchange
a weak flutter of smiles. “She’s always reading books.”
Uh-huh.
“She’s so good, driving me here each day.”
That is nice of her, the woman says.
I wrote my aunt a few times after I returned to my university in the fall. In one letter, I told her I had always imagined
we would have lunch together someday when I was older and could pick up the check. She wrote back that she liked that idea
and wondered what I would be like when I was older. I remember the person I was in college. I was naive and had a keen sense
of my own importance. When I wrote her that letter, I couldn’t quite believe our conversation would ever come to an end.
I looked through her old photographs not so long ago. My uncle allowed me into his library and invited me to sit down in his
chair. There was an unusual softening in him. He had little patience for people of my generation and often said we were spoiled
and didn’t appreciate everything our parents had given us.
There was one photograph of my aunt and uncle sitting on a bench in Washington Square in New York City. My aunt’s face is
as round as an apple, and she is bundled up in a soft brown coat with a fur-lined collar, her shoulder resting against my
uncle’s. My uncle wears a dark winter coat and tie, and they look like a happy, elegant couple, sitting close beside each
other, with their hands in their laps, and smiling.
You both look so young, I told my uncle.
We took a lot of pictures then, he said. Not so much later. He picked up the photograph and gazed at it for a moment before
he shook his head and put it down again. When you’re young, you have the energy to take pictures, he said.
I wake up, and it is four in the morning, the windows still dark. I have just met my aunt for the first time in several years,
and my mind is still tingling from her presence. I had felt such hope seeing her again.
In my dream, I am walking along a sloping field toward a group of strangers, and I see my aunt talking and laughing with a
glass in her hand. She is wearing the beautiful rose dress that we buried her in. The grass glows unnaturally against the
darkening sky, and I walk toward my aunt with an expanding sense of unreality, my lungs filling with cold, fragrant air. When
I look down, there is the pink shimmer of her dress, which I am now wearing, her pearl necklace looped around my wrists.
The last time I spoke to my aunt, it was near Christmas. It was snowing, and the whiteness outside seemed symbolic. Everyone
said that if there was a miracle, it would be today. But you don’t believe in God, Philip said to me. So there can be no miracles.
My
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