The Immunologist’s Response Jason A. Zwiker Rain, though promised, never fell. So, there being no getting rid of it, I worked the pollen into the lesson plans, imaging it under the electron microscope. “The misery lies in how we individually respond to what is all around us.” One student snapped his fingers, looking for a metaphor. “Snot globs of fishhooks,” I said. That’s as poetic as I get with undergraduates. Besides, that’s exactly what it feels like in the eyes. Every dry and swollen spider-scratch from my tear ducts on in will testify. Yet some may swim in it, unharmed. One good storm would wash it from the sky. Slipstreams of yellow darting through puddles would be beauty untold of in any poetry yet written, right about now. One day I’m escaping this malignant season of swollen eyes and sneezing, even if that means Siberia. The idea of far away winter winds feels soothing, pleasant. Siberia’s university towns might suit an expatriate professor well, women clutching textbooks to their sweaters and seeking warmth where they can find it. A place to make peace, rediscover grace in nature, scatter bread to the migrating flocks. The very name, Siberia, promises distance, escape. I surprised people by staying in Charleston after Katie, but I had nothing else. Some supposed I would return to my people in Vermont. But they’re not mine, not really. Dad and I talk, we don’t fight, but after an hour he’s ready to get back to the game on TV. Gladys, now living with him, sees my Ph.D., expects money. I help out when I can, but it is just too different, uncomfortable. All I ever had was Katie. This was her town. You spend your whole life searching for one thing that is truly yours, that makes you feel you have found the home you never had, but there is no guarantee you’ll be allowed to keep it. You understand breast cancer will be terrible. You imagine chemotherapy or her wearing one of those pretty scarves wrapped around her head and kissing her and telling her she is still so beautiful. But all this you envision in the context of her, of her continuing, never expecting how sudden the end will be. “It’s an aggressive cancer,” they tell you. “Sometimes.” I’ve done my best to swim in it unharmed. I laugh easily, always. Break up the tension with a joke or a quick play on words. And when I have to, when the words fail, I wander behind the research building where I’ve discovered a row of trees yielding Japanese plums. It’s a good place despite the fine dusting of pollen. Sometimes it’s just easier to tell yourself that seasonal allergies are what you need to escape, what makes you want to run. Other days all I really want is this quiet place where I can gather fruit, just enough for here and now, and dream of rain. Where I close my eyes and think of far away.