It's something I see you wearing more these days, not over your skin, but in your smile: the toll this illness has had on you, a hopeful sadness for your son.
“This isn’t the real you,” she said. “You used to smile as a child.” I know I wish I could be more like him. What I wouldn’t give to be him again.
So this is it. This is the man I grew to be. I somehow thought he would be less of a coward.
The years I spent praying I'd die in my bed.
So this is something I've come to know. I'm afraid to die, but more afraid to change. And I'm sorry, so sorry, I gave you that weight. Could you ever imagine having to bury a son?
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