I'm sorry.
Why is apologizing the first thing I did when I had to tell everyone I had a tumor? "I'm sorry," I said, like I failed them.
This is how I die.
Some people fight, but why am I ready? I haven't even felt sick. "This is how I die," I told myself, before there was even a prognosis.
I haven't finished.
Regret? Drive? Or just a statement? "I haven't finished," I told the universe matter-of-factly.
I'm sorry.
I am compelled to find things of my past. The older I get, the more I seek those images and items that remind me of my childhood. The more I lose the items and the people I once had, the more I long to see them and be reminded of the feelings of comfort and safety and love and mystery and adventure and potential and of hidden worlds where everything that ever was still is. A nubbly sofa. A red, round chair. A green carpet. Wood ceiling. Quietly, they wait inside me. The feelings bubble up and my Daddy is there. My Mommy is there. My home is still Home.
