I am sitting hear listening to my Father slowly drown to death. I keep expecting him to smell of death. I don’t know what that smell is, but that thought is in mind.

There is a lady who yells help, occasionally, the birds chirp away, obliviously, in the back ground, and there is an alarm that goes off, with regularity, when someone gets out of their bed.

I sit here wondering what to hope for. Do I pick death? Do I want to hold on to the shell that is left, lying there, painless, we hope.

I know this will stay with me for a long time. There goes the lady again, and I wonder, shouldn’t I be the one yelling for help?