It was, my last year with you, or rather, your last year, with me, I knew you were dying, but, when I’d spent time with you, I’d not brought up the subjects of death OR dying, because I didn’t want to deal with the eventuality, that came sooner than I’d liked to think, of losing you.
My last year with you, I was only a kid, and, at the end of that year with you, I’d grown, all of a sudden, it seems. I’d become, independent, because you are gone, and I’d had to, toughen myself up, so I won’t feel that hard-hitting wave of loss.
My last year with you, you were so young, only a child, and yet, I couldn’t find more time to spend with you, even IF I’d wanted to, my time’s been cut short, and, because you were that young, I know, that you won’t have any memories of me at all…
My last year with you, it was, too difficult, for me, to bear, to live with the imminent, the pressing reality, that you’re going to be gone before me, and it’s just, NOT right, for a parent, to bury a child!
