By Jan Alarcon

A week after my car accident I enter an extended care facility. All but one of us is here to heal our broken bones. Rest and wait for your x-rays to change. A furry snowball will surround the break; then disappear; a solid white line will replace it. Be of good cheer. A bone never breaks in the same place twice. I wait for two months for my twenty-seven lines to appear.
Lena has no broken bones. Lena, on compassionate care, has an inoperable brain tumor. She’s thirty-one. Commensurate with her status, Lena has the sunny corner room with glass walls and views of both gardens. A trolley cart, replenished daily with home-baked goods, resides at her door. Her children visit every morning, her church every evening. All link arms and pray around her. Lena’s eyes open and express concern, forgiveness, prophecy; the interpretation is up to us. Continue reading Nightwriters: Birthday Cake →