In the early mornings we’d run through the vineyards until he’d plop down in the mustard blooms, his black coat covered in yellow.

I stood in the center of the March morning and I wept. Not because it was snowing in March.

My mama died of pancreatic cancer. My daddy, a ruptured aorta.

When everything done in your humanness seems inadequate, trust that the answers will come.

Life’s surprises are sometimes packaged as 4am wakeup calls, when the body tells the mind that something is terribly wrong.

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for details. But I did.

I place my hands on my sides, thumbs resting just below the back of my ribcage. “Here,” I ask? “Right there,” he replies.

I begin my day with coffee but not the drinking kind.

I have always admired those who take a long breath when hard news comes.

I'm not quite dead yet.* In fact, on this other side of life with cancer there is so much life ahead.

We count out twenty and I feel the burn like the back of my legs are giving out. Then comes this far off voice whispering, “cancer.”

Throughout December I kept imagining the scene in Lady and the Tramp...the one with the pink-striped box and the white bow with Lady nestled inside.

Sometimes I choose the seat at the far side of the room. It’s the opposite of being aloof.

Emotions are not polite little entities that properly wait their turn. Sometimes they jump over one another.

Sometimes when my eyes are closed, I see sounds. Not hear them. But see them.

Sometimes I skip to the end when the suspense is just too much to bear.