2 December 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 4

Believer

by THOMAS KELLAR

I tell her she's superstitious

she fires back:

"You're a poor excuse for a skeptic."

She believes in miracles,

I believe

(given a long enough period of time)

everything turns to cinder.

She waits on grace,

I wait surprise announcements

from the Emergency Broadcasting System.

Last night

she was on the phone

more than an hour

in deep discussion

with a close friend.

I was on the couch

watching Kings

lose to Knicks on ESPN,

between baskets

catching fragments

of conversation,

x-rays… prognosis…

six months… inoperable…

Saint Francis… chemo…

complete surprise… Taxol…

Julian circle… prayer…

When she hung up

I went into the kitchen,

tried to look busy

constructing a chicken salad sandwich,

I didn't want to know.

This morning

over decaf and English muffins

she announces:

Next year

we're skipping the Honolulu trip.

She wants to spend the two weeks

hiking high desert,

experiencing what Thoreau called

the "tonic of wildness"

vast emptiness, long silence,

Via Negativa,

the search for illumination.

She asks me what I think,

I'm stumped for a delicate answer.

"All I want to find is triple As

for the channel changer."

Later she breaks it to me,

Susan's father has lung cancer.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes" she says.

We sit there

watching our neighbor

through the kitchen window

wrestle with his garbage can.

Finally she asks me,

"Do you ever think about dying?"

"As little as possible."

"I wish I could be like you," she says

but she doesn't mean it.

Secretly grateful,

I'm glad as hell

she's not.