T is for Time. I don’t have a lot of it. My prognosis is short-term. But what a gift.

I lay out some twigs, a clump of dryer lint and a drugstore receipt for eyedrops that’s inexplicably as long as my arm. The firepit fills with flames, rapidly consuming my offerings while fading away as quickly as they began. I reload with more sticks, torn paper bags, newspaper shreds and fallen wood. I am patient with my fire-tending.

As I navigate innumerable decisions along this terminal cancer journey, having the strength and desire to return to beloved interests like viola feels like a precious gift.