You Died

“Come down to the basement,” says Liora, hopping, “‘Ella and me made up a story about you.” Their seven year old eyes gleam. “You died of heart cancer – no, no, what do you call this?” They pat at their chests cautiously.
     “Breast?” I ask. (This is weird.)
     “Of breast cancer! ‘Cuz, even though you cut your hair off short, so short, and someone gave you a wig to be nice to you, it grew back long. Because you die if you have long hair and breast cancer.”
     Four parents set down stricken lemon meringue pie forks when I relay this.

Image: Nils Gore