I’ve rearranged the apartment so that I can sit across the living room and look out of its three windows, each of which is turned in a different direction. The middle one opens dead onto the neighbors’ blue siding, but the right looks through a tree, past the house, into fall foliage—and the rising sun. The left looks at the neighbors’ house too, but a yellow hackberry almost screens it, a fine pattern of small oval leaves and prickly black twiggage.

Here, with a distance available to me, I can sit and look into the future.

Thirteen days into my luteal phase…is thirteen lucky or unlucky? A hatful of “symptoms” that can only be read in retrospect, and sometimes not even then. But the morning fires are glowing, out there, yellow and pink-blush maples knowingly flaming out before they die down. Do they look into the middle distance, wondering what their lives will be? Do they have any certainty?

I know I will conceive—I think it’s already been given to me. Maybe not now, this month, but sometime. When I reread some blog entries, the other day, that I’d written during the ovarian cancer ordeal, I remembered how certain I’d been about myself, how blessed I was and would continue to be. I had a dream—rather silly in detail, but profound in essence—in which I was told I would be as physically fertile/creative as I was in other ways, like in my imaginative life, as a writer, a gardener, a friend. In the dream, it was implied that it was ridiculous to expect anything else. And I awoke overjoyed, still in pain, stitched up like Frankenstein’s monster, nine-inch scar.

Rilke says “patience is everything.”  Patience is the secret knowledge that a hilltop follows the blind upward climb, or that the end is coming sometime after the beginning.  Something like that.