by
Jill Ciment
I gave him his privacy until the sobs subsided. He had every right to cry for what was about to be taken from him.
Everything.
When I finally joined him in the bedroom, he said, “It’s hard to believe that I’m not going to be here in a few weeks.”
“You could have months,” I said.
“It’s just as impossible to accept that I’m not going to be here in a few months,” he said.