Every romantic relationship I’ve ever had has pretty much been disastrous. The majority of people I’ve called friend have shown themselves to be fairweather, at best. The only three people I’ve always been able to rely on no matter what have been my grandma and my parents. My grandma died nearly ten years ago. Two weeks ago my father was given six months to live, but it seems that that might be a serious overstatement. About two years ago he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer, which has since overtaken his liver and most recently his lungs.
And so here I am, helplessly knowing there’s nothing I can do for him anymore but offer comfort and compassion, which just doesn’t seem to be enough. In all of this, while I couldn’t sleep last night I was reminded of two stories I wrote, one for each of my parents, and I’d like to share.
Here’s Samuel for my mother and Harry for my father.