If You Dream of Rain, the World Cannot be Ending

After his first surgery, he decides he will learn to make bread; 
and perhaps a more complicated recipe, something with chunks 

of beef, mushrooms, and wine to serve as a main dish. And 
for a while, he does. Coming home, she walks into a sweet 

yeastiness in the air, the fragrance of frying garlic and onions. But
that doesn't last. A few more years down the road and they're 

increasingly distraught by the slew of new ailments. In the blood, 
proliferation of small, colorless fragments. Under the skin, mysterious 

flares. The number of amber-colored vials multiplies in the cabinets. Visions
of the uncertain future keep her up at night. When finally she falls asleep, 

she dreams of a long hallway lined with doors. She opens each of them softly, 
one by one: there is a well under a wild eucalptus tree. The rain converses fluidly

with itself. Like miracle, daughters link hands or braid each other's hair. Usually, 
she'll wake to the sound of him washing the cups, the smell of coffee brewing.