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Rituals of Comfort Tomorrow morning determines my belief in mercy or misery. Meanwhile, I gamble all the trust Jordan places in me. I throw a pair of dice at cancer. I bet one cube of flesh sliced from her lover’s arm. My wife busies herself with boiling water for tea, fetching blankets and pillows, the ordinary rituals of comfort. We coil around two conversations: one a rattlesnake, the other a licorice wheel. After a few hours of this, Jordan wanders into sleep, trailing tissues and hair on our worn couch. I’m convinced the wind prophesies the future so I leave the window open, let it creep between the screen and me, watch it shift Jordan’s hair without rousing her, a secret tenderness. II. Tuesday Morning With the sun barely peeking into our home, I hear my wife quietly singing from the living room. She strokes Jordan’s hair, tucks it behind her ears. My wife obliges her in a lullaby. They both close their eyes. I close my eyes and think of an article about group suicides, how three students burned charcoal briquettes in an empty apartment. All three wore ski goggles to keep the smoke from their eyes.
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