Abigail on the Classics

There was a time when falling rain would bring to mind all the things about my life I wish I could just wash away. That time is lost to me now, thank goodness. As I sit here and listen to the steady rhythm of water from heaven, I am only reminded of how beautiful the hillsides will be this spring because of it.

I am beginning to think I may not be here to see those hillsides in bloom. The menace within me has begun boiling a brew inside that will eventually kill me. I don't know what the doctors call the fierce amber fluid that the cancer produces and which they insist must be siphoned off. I don't want to know what it is called. It is enough to know that it seems to materialize from nothing.

Wait. That is not entirely true. My own body is producing it. Lauren would tell me, no, the tumor is producing it. But who produced the tumor, Lauren? My body did. My own body has turned against me. It's the most inane thing. It will consume itself, my body will. It will win. And it will lose.

Lauren has reminded me these last few few days that a new body awaits me in heaven. She is being brave for me. I can sense her fear, though. She knows I want to stay in my house until the end. She knows it might come more quickly than we thought. She knows Mercy's gallery won't be done by the time the cauldron inside me has its way. She often shows me photos on her digital camera of the work being done. The construction workers have done nothing the last few days with all this rain. Nothing for five days. Five days lost to me.

So I amuse myself with the architect's drawings. They are beautiful - the drawings. There are people strolling about the drawn-in grounds and birds in the sky and a brilliant sun.

And on every exterior shot, the hillsides behind are in bloom.

The rain is quickening its pace now. I believe I just heard thunder. I think it's time for a cup of tea.