There’s nothing light about terminal illness. The dirty dishes sit on the sink abandoned; heaps of toys and clutter fall brick-heavy on your arms from your child’s. The mind wanders through a pile of words that you cannot construct properly – even for a fee. The hands, the body, their weight amplified on a cushion as you stare back at a blank page waiting to be filled before 5 pm. No, nothing is ever light, save for the river of tears.
|This is one of my stepdad’s favorite spots in the world.
Like everything Now, it’ll be just a memory soon.