“I have cancer.”

It was so natural, the way my dad said it, that I almost didn’t think anything of it at first. We’d just left Aunt Jade’s house and were sitting in his ’89 Chevy Caprice next to the drug store on Main Street while we waited for the train to pass by. The tracks run through the middle of downtown Acworth, wind past abandoned industrial buildings to the north, up and over the interstate, and across Lake Allatoona to chug through the mountains of North Georgia and beyond. I was counting the train cars and was at 28 when he said it.

“I have cancer,” he said again.   

And it was like, all in that moment, I could tell that he had cancer, could feel it ruminating in his belly, filling his insides, and showing itself in the yellow of his eyes. I grabbed the door handle and held onto it for dear life, wishing instead I would reach out to where my dad’s hand rested on the gear shift and curl my fingers around his wrist so I could feel the gentle, reassuring pulse of blood flowing through his veins. I didn’t.

– “Counting”

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