Like an enormous leech the pancreas lies with its head tucked into the duodenum, upside down, the tail outstretched over it, an animal curled in on itself. In the preserve jar of the belly, it wriggles like a strange, medieval cure. When we sleep, Anicka, the pancreas secretes its juices, reverting tonight’s toutlerreinto Germanic syllables again: cake, meat, blood. All of this healing is out of our hands. I turn to you, completely unconscious. Completely unconscious, you turn to me.
“An Insistent and Eager Harmoniousness to Things”
by David Keplinger
I dreamt about Mom last night, nothing that interesting, I can’t even remember it now. Dad was there, too. We were all arguing about something. Typical.
Four years ago her results came back. She called me in the car as I drove home, but she wouldn’t say what they were, only that she wanted to come over with Dad that night and tell us all together. So of course I knew. And I screamed and cried in the car. I do this a lot; I’m a very unsafe driver except that nothing ever happens.
My ex and I bonded again over this … there was something, I thought. Maybe it all could have been saved. But then in April when she was gone … nothing.
It’s so weird how we’re programmed to self-destruct and die, in whatever way.