IF. 

Don’t say it.

But IF-

Do. Not. Say. It. 

“IF’s are dangerous things.”

For God sake’s, woman, it’s in all the grief books: 

“Rule #1: Whatever you do, stay away from the word IF.” 

But IF, she comes to my bed unbidden, late in the night 

when the world is quiet except for the rhythmic breathing of my husband and dogs. 

IF beckons me to jump on her back, away from the dampness of my pillow, and get on.

IF says to hurry up; we are burning moonlight. And I go. I always go.

For such a small word, IF is sturdy and sure-footed. IF assures me 

she can ride long distances and get to the outer reaches of my imagination. 

IF takes me back to the years and months before my daughter’s diagnosis. 

IF shows me my younger Self. “There she is,” IF says. 

Younger Self is going down the hall with a basket of folded towels. 

She is blithely unaware of her daughter’s silent killer. 

But Younger Self can’t hear me. She can’t hear my tearful pleas as 

I collapse in front of the linen closet. “Please save our girl.” 

But Younger Self never looks up. 

IF takes me back farther in time to a USO dance. The wooden floor 

bounces to the beat of a big band. IF suggests I sit on a bench 

next to my grandmother and whisper warnings in her ear. 

“Don’t do it, Grandma,” I say. “Whatever you do, don’t say ‘yes.’”

But my grandmother pays me no mind. Her feet are eager to dance. 

She looks up and accepts the hand in front of her, 

attached to a man in uniform, a man who will one day leave her 

to raise two boys, my father and his brother, alone. 

IF then brings me to the window of my parents’ first apartment. 

I am standing on my tippy toes, outside looking in, and they are fighting. 

I have yet to be conceived. 

IF makes me wonder, “What if my mother left when love did?” 

I tap and tap on the glass pane. “Stop,” I shout. “Stop.” Inside, a door slams. 

IF insists I go to the scene of my own clumsy meeting with the man 

who is sleeping beside me. We watch awkwardly as two young college kids 

flirt behind microscopes. I can’t stay long.

IF demands to know which of life’s dominos should be removed 

to prevent my great suffering. I say “I don’t know.” I don’t know.

IF suggests we ride back to the Roman Empire or crash The Last Supper. 

IF is cocky and says we could even watch Michelangelo as he spends a day 

on his back painting God’s fingernail. 

IF says anything is possible. If I can imagine it, we can go there. 

Okay, I say. If IF can take me anywhere, I know where I most want to go.

IF takes me to the door of my own house, and I almost trip over a roller skate. 

The morning sun is streaming through dirty windows. 

I follow the sound of Sponge Bob Square Pants to the TV room 

where my boys are laying belly down on the floor eating cereal 

with a serving spoon. My girls are stretched out on the couch above 

sharing a blanket. 

I lay down on my belly, too, and kiss my boys’ sticky hands and 

pat their fluffy bed heads. The girls move quickly to make a spot 

between them, and we gobble fistfuls of cereal out of the box. 

As usual, Sponge Bob is hysterical about something, but not me, not me.

I, for one brief moment, under a blanket that probably needs to be washed, 

am in heaven. 

IF only smiles.