He’s diminishing fast, every time I see him I’m shocked at how frail and sick he looks. Sometimes when we’re on the patio, just him and I talking and smoking a cigarette, he’ll mention a date he’s looking forward to in the future.
“Next month is……..”
I hold my breath and look behind his eyes. Look through him so I don’t have to see the question mark in his gaze.
It would surprise me if he made it through the next two weeks.
He looks ahead, toward the future, refuses to accept his fate. I wish I could tell him, I wish I could say the words, but I just nod my head as he makes plans for a day I doubt he’ll live to see.
I don’t have it in me to tell him that maybe, perhaps, he is in an AIDS hospice because he’s dying, and the future that he’s planning doesn’t exist. Tomorrow may not exist. I wish it did. I wish I could give him day after day of tomorrows. I wish I could give him a lifetime of dusk and dawn, but all I can do is nod my head and let him dream of “next month.”
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment