Hula for the Cure

That's what the sidewalk told me to do, as I chugged through a late-afternoon run. Written in pink chalk by Scouts doing a fundraising event, the message was soon washed away by the early-summer rain. But it stayed with me all the way down Mass Ave and back. I'll shake my hips for that, for sure.

When I was a kid, my room in my dad's house was right next to his. At night, we would holler our thoughts about heavy things across the house. Well, things that were heavy when I was 10. Things that are heavy now: death, memory, scary things under the bed. During one of these discussions Dad told me that to him there's no god, which at the time was really mind-blowing, but even at 10 I respected his conviction. When I saw him and mom last weekend I brought this up, which spawned a discussion about the existence of God and the mysteries of the universe. Dad's preferred superpower, it turns out, would be to be present at the Big Bang, to learn what really happened when everything began. (Mine was to talk to and understand animals.)

We contemplated then, as we had years ago, the spectre of death; the possibility of empty nothingness following the suffering of this life. Mom and I refuse to accept that that's it. Maybe because we have endured terrible things. Maybe Dad's also done that, but figured out how to make the most of it anyway. Either way, we disagree, but it's ok with me. We've each got to make our own way with this stuff, anyway.

Mom's reports came back just fine, normal. Thanks. God.