They were married for 57 years.
He's dying.
All she can do is sit beside him and hold his hand and itch his nose for him.
My family is gathered in a room...together...celebrating life and preparing for death and getting ready for the transition that is bound to happen any day now and I am thousands of miles away.
I chose this for myself.
There's nothing I could do even if I was there.
"Go on with your life, we'll keep you updated," they say, and so I do.
I make chocolate chip/banana/walnut pancakes and clean the living room and get ready to go out to dinner but in the middle I cry. Randomly. Sometimes for a few seconds. Other times for half an hour. Always by myself...no one here knows because I haven't found the strength to tell them.
It makes me long for home. The one with only 800 people but all of my family...my family that will soon be 1 member smaller.
The last time I saw him he squeezed my hand and begged me to stay. As I left I cried, filled with guilt for being so far away and not seeing him more and not staying longer when I did see him and knowing that this could be the last time I see him and...and....and...
It was.