Dec 7, 2013
Time After Time
Posted on Sep 30, 2011
By Mr. Fish
“How do you know that I’m not going to die?” she asked me once, exhausted by chemotherapy and worried about leaving our children motherless.
“Because I know,” I said, imagining millions of terrified cells clinging so desperately to one another and eavesdropping on our conversation from the center of her gut.
“How can you know?” she asked.
“Because,” I said, “I just know.”
“I know,” I said, smiling back at her. She opened her mouth to speak and then stopped herself, unsure as to whether I was saying that I knew that she was right and that I couldn’t know or that I knew for sure that she wasn’t going to die. When she didn’t ask for clarification and laid her bald head down upon my chest and fell asleep, I pictured Jacqueline Kennedy, polka-dotted with blood and brain tissue, skittering across the back of a dark blue 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible in the Dallas sunshine and looking for a place upon which to stand and to cross her arms and to throw out her chest, certain that her defiance would be enough to deflect bullets.
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