[I’m on the phone.]

So, is meeting on the first of November good for you?

Yes, Lisa, that’ll work. Here in Rexler Hall?

Mhm. Yes, that’s fine.

I’m sorry I haven’t received your messages, I don’t know how that happened.

Oh, not a problem. Probably got buried someone in your inbox.

Maybe, but I’ve tried to keep up with email, that’s been the one thing I’ve been good about since I’ve been gone.

Oh?

Well, I just had a baby in May.

Cong-

But then this summer, I was diagnosed with cancer.

Long breath in.

Yes, I know. I’ve been busy. But, this meeting sounds great and I look forward to it.

Yes, so do I. Thank you.

So, this woman, who had a child and was diagnosed with cancer had the most pleasant voice and cheerful disposition. My navel-gazing resumed. I’m pissed because I can’t run well when it’s cold out. My moods are swinging like pendulums on crack and the world is a cruel, narrow, and racist place.

But I’m healthy. My lungs breathe on their own, my mind is alert and sharp, and my muscles are long, uninterrupted, and strong. I’m happy. Adonis wrote me an emotional poem that raced to both the beating physical and proverbial heart. My family, as fucking crazy as it is, is alive, argumentative, and passionately devoted to one another.

I am alive, with no threat of tomorrow or violence. The logs in my fireplace neatly burn and my kitchen cutting board is made of solid wood. The pesto sauce I made last night was perfect with the tortellini. Messages on voice-&e-mail, albeit windy, chide me to return love, return to loved ones and be received and known.

I do not have cancer. I am not on an operating table. I do not see spiders in my home. I’m in therapy, but not recovery. There is no power over me except the O*e I worship in my soul. My water is silver clear and my pillow shares two heads, dreaming differently but sharing one vision.

I am alive.