Dear Papa,
I just got home, and I think you're still up, hiccuping in the other room.
You don't know that I know your hiccups are a symptom.
It seems stupid, the hiccups, but they keep you awake.
Like tiny, incessant internal screams
that your body makes in response to the
army of tiny incessant cells that are taking over your body,
my father.
Last week, you hiccuped until 3:30,
and I think I hear them through the wall.
But I hope you aren't, and until I see you,
I can hope you are in bed, asleep, in a dream.
Call it wishful thinking,
I call it a lullaby.
Love,
yr daughter
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