this time it will be different

I cannot, in any way, know what you’re going through. 

The diagnosis; Cancer; Pancreatic.

The agony, suffering, disbelief, longing and loneliness you must feel all at once, all the time, are incomprehensible. This is me trying. Trying to feel it. Trying to breathe it; live it. So maybe, just maybe, for 1 out of the 86,400 seconds, you might not have to. I see you taking it step by step and I want so badly for your shoes to be placed on my feet, my own glass slipper. 

I want to hoard up all your sadness, cradle it in my arms like a spoiled child with too many toys or Adele and all her Grammys. I’ll keep it all to myself and refuse to ever give it back to you. 

Somehow I’m able to let myself feel everything you do. Your thoughts have become my own. 

All the negativity I tell you over and over again to get rid of I consume. Your now cancer sick nations absorbed by my still unfinished empire  

Maybe someday I’ll be able to take my own advice.

I’ve pegged you for dead before you even had a chance. I’m not sure what kind of son that makes me. It’s a piss poor coping strategy, I know, but it’s all I’ve got. The worst is yet to come and somehow, I already feel prepared. 

Strong

Able

Independent

A leader

A shoulder

Strong

Capable

Independent

Equipped

Stable

Thorough

Selfish

Needy

Cowardly

Greedy

Frivolous

Dependent

Words cannot express, I know; but they, these words, are going have to do. They’ll try real hard Mommy.