Father

The genetic test tells her she is not at risk for breast cancer. Tells her she probably doesn't have dandruff. 

Tells her she has a half brother she doesn't know on the west coast. 

Tells her the man she called dad for an entire life is not the one who made her. 

She calls you staring into nothing, with no answers and not sure what her questions. On 6th street, I walk past a man shooting up outside a Dunkin Donuts, a shopping bag with a plastic toy gun sticking out. The ice rain makes the buds hide again, three years ago today the lights were dark on Broadway, the plans we had made were quickly quelled, three years it's been since last I knew hope. 

Three years since last we thought good things can come out of adversity. 

She says, now I have to go find this man I never knew existed and call him dad. You tell her she doesn't have to do anything, but you know what she means. Everything is different now. 

You asked the Universe for a challenge out of your control. Do you feel you got your fill? Do you think you've had enough? 

Sometimes I think making it out alive is a real low bar to set.