Hospital beds. Feeding tubes. Assisted suicide. Depression. Cancer. Doctors. Charts. Assisted Living.
I don't want to say good bye, but I know I have to. I know I won't ever see them again, but I still can't accept that. But I know I can't say goodbye to them, but if I don't I know I'll regret it for the rest of my life.
No running jokes about vegetarianism. No picnics at sea. No Thanksgiving together. Not ever again.
I know they're going to die soon. They've even thought about committing suicide. The only thing in the way is that he can't swallow pills anymore. She can't take it anymore, she doesn't want to live anymore.
Half a sandwich and a feeding tube for lunch. Only meal of the day. Caloric intake self-restricted.
They've always been around, but now they won't. The beach won't be the same anymore. I won't remember Alaska the same way anymore either. But I know I have to say goodbye in my own way.