The coming fire

                “Oh, it’s some kind of tumor.”  His mother waved a hand dismissively.  “Who can understand a thing those doctors say nowadays?”

                “But are you going to be all right?” Jonah demanded, a strange feeling of desperation burbling up inside of him.

                “Hmmmn.  Now where did I put that phone number again?”

                “Mom,” Jonah loudly interrupted, “are you going to be all right?”

                “What, dear?  Oh, that.  No, I don’t think so.  Tumors aren't good, you know, and they can’t operate on it for some reason or another.”

                “What are you saying?  Are you going to die?”

                “Well, we’re all going to die, dear.”

                “I mean soon!”

                “It seems that way.  Can you help me find this phone number?”

                Jonah stood there, watching his mother search the roll top desk that used to sit in Grandma Mueller’s dining room.  She’d mis-buttoned the back of her house dress, so that one of the tiny pink plastic buttons stuck out on top by the collar.  “Cheer up sleepy Jean,” she was singing to herself.  “Oh, what can it mean?  To a daydream believer, and a homecoming queen…”