My dandelion wish
Puffed. Franco Lautieri/Flickr/CC BY 2.0 The last time I saw my friend Kathleen under normal circumstances was at Easter. We spent a sun-filled afternoon in my backyard, kids and friends and family surrounding us, awash in the hope of resurrection that this most holy Christian day promises. Just the week before, Kathleen had received sobering results from her most recent cancer scan. Her prognosis—terminal from day 1—seemed shorter yet. But despite that, or maybe because of it, we laughed and ate cupcakes and took group pictures, overjoyed to be present to the day together, our joy backlit by our knowledge of its impermanence. One month later, on an equally sunlit day, I was again in my backyard, this time having an evening picnic with my husband and children. Within the elapsed weeks, Kathleen’s health had taken a sudden and rapid turn for the worse. Her death was imminent, and I was in the throes of anticipatory grief. The hot, sunny weather assaulted and offended me. How dare spring
