Sometimes I think I'm going to see you and I prepare fun stories in my head and then I realize that I'm not going to see you, that we're not like that now, and my whole little speech about how a diagnosis reads like a poem is totally shot, like our love of an/unspecified nature/suggestive/of malignancy.
I don't think I'm going to die today or even soon and sometimes I think that I have done some pretty poor planning in terms of my potential failure to die. Like the last time I did some life planning it was more like death planning and I was smoking a pack a day and drinking until the walk home was at best vague and now I'm hardly saintly but it occurs to me that retirement planning is like a real thing, like I am past the "good-looking corpse" clause if you know what I mean.
When Squire was wee he had a total meltdown on a plane where he was sure we were going to crash and die a fiery death. There was nothing to reassure him, and I felt then how empty such reassurance was, because this is exactly what you cannot prepare for, the surprise. Fat fear tears rolling down his cheeks, but he was brave and he was ready, even while he was beyond consolation. I might have turned around and gone home if we could have gotten home without flying. And yet what could I say: relax, you're not going to die. It's exactly what everybody says. It is exactly a lie.
I bought shampoo for gray hair today. I will probably never stop missing you.