You want to be wrong. You want everyone else to be right. For every negative thought that passes through your head, you want to believe that “thinking positive” will ward away what most you fear. Well-wishing friends instruct you to dispel skepticism, will against negativity, and imagine wellness. You try. You really try. But in the recesses of your mind, whispering just loud enough so that your rational stream of consciousness can hear, your inner voice gossips about what could really happen. And when fate agrees, and one of those pessimistic, back-biting ideas really does happen, the negative fringe incites rebellion. Every synapse in your brain attracts itself to the seemingly clairvoyant notion. Perception scrambles for a leader, and the logical point of view rescues sanity from the anarchy of positive thinking.

When I don’t write, it is usually a sign that things are going well, or that I’m traveling too much. Both circumstances explain the long gap between these entries. Quite frankly, I hoped my blogging days were behind me, or that I could start a new blog that covered more upbeat topics. But, here I am, back again, providing you with news on Jordan’s condition. She is back in the hospital as a result of new symptoms related to her battle with cancer.

Dear Jordan, I was 22 when I met your mother. At the time, both of us were draped in polyester. We worked together as ushers at The Music Center and the uniforms left much to be desired in the way of fashion. Although, when it was cooler, the girls got to wear dark cloaks with crimson linings. Your mother looked beautiful in hers, like a character from one of the operas whose doors we guarded every night.

She let a giggle escape as she slid her fists together. I raised her elbow to line up with her ear and the giggle erupted into an outburst of laughter. Her knees went soft and she lost her stance. I looked over at her baseball coach who was laughing himself. Her laughter was infectious. It was hard to get serious with her. “OK, Jordan, ” I said. “Let’s hit the ball out of the park.

She’s eccentric; the kind of girl who one day might wear satin jumpsuits to cocktail parties. She carries herself with a bubbling coolness, a contradiction of temperament. One moment she is detached as a Japanese dowager, the next vying for the gasp of an audience. Some might label her dramatic. She’d probably agree. She relishes exhibition. She moves animated, flittering in a flattened world, pushing her will upon it with an infectious charm, a large part of why I love her.