My healthy self looked very little like her healthy self. But our cancer selves might’ve been sisters.
No wonder he’d stared at me the first time he saw me. I kept clicking back to this one wall post,
written two months ago, nine months after she died, by one of her friends.
We all miss you so much. It just never ends. It feels like we were all wounded in your battle, Caroline. I miss you. I love you.
After a while, Mom and Dad announced it was time for dinner.
I shut down the computer and got up, but I couldn’t get the wall post out of my mind, and for some reason it made me nervous and unhungry.
I kept thinking about my shoulder, which hurt, and also I still had the headache,
but maybe only because I’d been thinking about a girl who’d died of brain cancer.
I kept telling myself to compartmentalize, to be here now at the circular table
(arguably too large in diameter for three people and definitely too large for two)
with this soggy broccoli and a black-bean burger that all the ketchup in the world could not adequately moisten.
I told myself that imagining a met in my brain or my shoulder would not affect the invisible reality going on inside of me,
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