On this day of this month

two years ago.

The last day with him.

One month + one day from now

two years ago.

The first day without him.

Sometimes it's hard to know what to say to your dying father, and so we just sit together. In a moment of such silence, as his wife was inside preparing for a house showing, I noticed my dad gazing off into space with a far-away look. With an inhale, he picked up his marker and wrote a few words on the white board: “I hope I am still here when the tomatoes ripen”