I feel like a wrung out rag. Like that dirty cloth my Dad kept in the garage, with various stripes of residue from an engine, or an oil change, or from wiping down the cabinets filled with random screws from long ago projects, abandoned bungee cords, assorted zip ties, and antique wrench sets.

That rag has seen better days. We all have.

The last two hours I’ve sat here, as a therapist who is not a trained therapist. Listening to her story. Cancer, young, might die, might not. I’m warm but distanced, wet with tears that don’t fall, and poised but crumpled.

Why is August diagnosis season?

Why does August go on so long – the month that stretches out the blooms of summer, their sweet petals giving us a sense of endlessness, before the air turns crisp and the smell of death, decay and dying turns up, yet again?