She dusts and sweeps. She moves books from one corner to the next. Folds blankets and fluffs pillows. This activity continues for an endless hour. I hear the scraping of furniture on the upstairs patio as she sweeps the deck, one of her weekly chores. Next, I hear the thump and saunter of her descending the stairs. She sits across from me and sits quietly until I look up from the laptop to fix her in my vision.

The seizures are back. They are very mild, but we’re not fond of seizures. She can feel them coming. Today, during physical therapy, she told the therapist she felt funny, and then she asked for her mom. By the time Jeanette was talking to her, Jordan had slipped away from us for a minute, eyes glassy, speech malfunctioning. Just as quickly, she was back. They’ve been more frequent in the past week.

This morning, at 10:45 am, Luke Jensenpassed away after a three-year battle with leukemia. He was nine years old. We didn’t really know Luke or his family very well. His parents uploaded photos to a Flickr photo group where I have often posted pictures of Jordan. Years ago, I wrote about The Secret Society–the community that you discover all around you when you learn that your child has cancer. When you’re a member of the society, you sometimes feel a compelling, unexpected need to connect with total strangers.

I hadn’t thought it through completely. The thought came into my head and I allowed it to breeze out of my lips as easily as a burst of carbon dioxide. – Jordan, maybe one day next week you can come to work with me. She’s still on spring break and she’s a little bored. There was more to it than that. For the last few years I’ve been promising to bring her to work with me on “bring your daughter to work day.

Wednesday, the casts come off for good. She’s ready. She walks everywhere, climbs stairs, hurls her legs around like they were loose clothing. I keep telling her that her feet are going to be stiff, and it will probably hurt to move around when her legs are fiberglass free, but she can’t wait. She rolls her eyes and says, “I know, Dad.” On a walk home from lunch this afternoon I told her how proud I was of her – how she made everything look so easy.