day after day, small increments at a time, derailing one thing, hobbling another. She watched as he wished for death to make its final move but death refused, it took its time. She thought perhaps to savor his demise? Or was death attempting to be kind? He was a whittled stick, each day just a bit more shaved away. She noticed the process had accelerated. Each morning she woke with a pause on her mind – what would she find waiting in his room? And she dared not think what she
would do. She was angry; she’d had enough and could take no more. He made a friend of death and communed throughout the day, sitting nearly motionless, thinking, drifting,
and smoking his cigars – the one activity he was devoted to. Is there no more for you she’d ask, offering suggestions to amuse and stimulate. His answer always the same, he would not be deterred from his cigars, they were the last thing he could enjoy; his strength had drained away. She was furious. All the knowledge in his brain barely dimmed and this was all he choose to do with his time! He knew everything! He knew how to build, how to navigate the sea, hunt in the field, how to race a Z28, he even knew where Patagonia was. He’d told her barely a fraction of what he had learned in all the life she had lived; now it seemed too late, and too late for reproach. He was leaving her nearly destitute and somehow she had failed. She could not sway his resolve; she could only hope to change herself.