Dying is silence, perfect silence. It climbs up around us and hushes our voices, each day seems more precious. I realize how often I plan on tomorrow. Buy that sweater to wear next week, eat less today to look better tomorrow, I will do that later, not right now. How often I lie to myself thinking so easily of a future that may indeed not exist at all. I sit next to him and as I look at his face I know that I have to let him go. I want to cry but I do not. He is not rallying, he does not fight, he sits bent over encased in a silence. They speak in the other room as if he is not there, as if he is already gone. "What do you want?" I ask him. What to do you want with your last few todays? We have but moments, seconds, instants and I want to prove with this finality, how grateful I am that you were here for me. So I walk into the silence, greet the day, live the lie of tomorrow. His eyes search mine tears brim on their edges and I hear in his gaze the one thing I cannot give him, more time to live. If I could tear down the edges of the world for him I would.