Today I am twenty-six and wandering the steep streets of Lisbon, alone. The sun is hot, the angle of its light here, extraordinary. I don’t know if I’ve ever flexed the muscles of my memory and imagination quite as often as I do now. Like everything else, they seem to have atrophied as I’ve grown older. But some faculties remain strong–are even, perhaps, getting stronger. The anguish, for example, with which I look on my daughter as she plays, alone, in the yard. We set out the sprinkler and she runs through it in a too-small-swimsuit from last summer. It’s been so long since she’s worn one that she forgets to take off her underwear first; a soggy hem peeks out. My fantasies are only ever of rescue anymore. When are you coming for me, I imagine asking. The reply for which I steel myself: I am not coming for you.
Cancer, conundrums, cartoons
Well, then 