the last time I talked to my dad was a year ago today. I don’t remember what our Last Words were except I said something like “I’ll see you thursday” (I was going out of town) and dad said something like “love you,” I’m sure. he was about to go into surgery, and I honestly don’t remember if I said “love you”…

“My dad has cancer.”

The words feel wrong stumbling from my mouth. Foreign. Rehearsed. “My dad has cancer again.” Only this time it’s different. It’s not a Melanoma that can be carved out. It’s not a lymph node that can be removed as a precaution, worried that the first Melanoma had spread. It’s not even related to the…