Live and Live and Live

Fight hate with love. Fight death with life.

I went to bed at 8:30 this morning and woke up at 1:30 this afternoon, almost positive that depression was setting in. I blame myself for his death in many ways. I don't have a magic cancer wand that I waved to get him sick, but I was little and a lot of it I didn't understand, didn't want to understand. I wasn't in the room when he died, but I felt it down the hall in the kitchen with my uncles, drinking beer and talking old times. "How's your father?" "Good, I said," and went back to his room. I felt him die in my heart between the kitchen and his hospital room.

I didn't understand that they wanted him to be cremated. I wanted him to be put in the ground with flowers and grass and a headstone that I could visit. I visit George in the winter now, this year will be two years, and I touch the frozen earth with my fingertips, the same fingertips that whisper sad notes from my violin. Cancer took two of the greatest men I ever knew.

I listened to the hum of the machines, the whirring and the silent salty tears that dropped onto the bed sheets and the carpet and the windowsill. Circle of Life came on the radio and then, by the son's end, he was gone.

I miss the jokes he used to tell more than anything, and the way he smelled when he hugged me, and the sound of his voice calling my name from across the yard.

I just want to live and live and live and never have to deal with the consequence of life. I want to love and love and love and never have to face the reality of hate.