This is my view when my dad’s cancer diagnosis is confirmed. My body is rigid, pressed up against a frosty window, unable to move or else I’ll lose the phone signal.
I don’t have much to say about it yet, but I can tell you he is hopeful, and he is angry.
“I have things to do,” he says. “I don’t have time for this crap.”
Long after the call ends, I keep my cheek against the window. It is cold, and it gives me something to feel other than scared. The drizzle is steady, and I hear the groan of snow as it is pelted with raindrops.
I should get back to writing, but first I need to listen to the snow’s complaints for a while.