A cough clung to me, stubborn shadow.
Cough syrups failed. Not grave,
just a nag. I shrugged it off,
blueprints and deadlines calling.
Architects, my wife and I—
classmates turned lovers, partners.
Our firm thrived; two sons trailed us:
elder sketching spires, younger in tenth grade.
No smoke, no drink, no vices.
Daily runs, balanced plates—
health our foundation, solid.
Life hummed: stable marriage,
her love fiercer than mine.
Studious boys, firm blooming,
our dream-house our own design.
Kids graduate, four architects strong.
Marry into the trade? Six. Branches everywhere.
Then the cough deepened—chest knifed.
Old friend, the doctor: PET scan.
Verdict shattered: lung cancer,
advanced. The crab scuttled through me,
claws on organs. Palliative only.
“Ten months max,” he said. Forty years old.
“Keep it secret,” I begged.
“Tell your wife,” he urged.
Lawyer friend next: will for her, the boys.
“Secret,” I said. “Tell her,” he echoed.
Bed that night: truth spilled.
She shattered—tears twin brooks
rushing to her chin.
I crushed her close. Her sobs breached
my walls; grief gushed free.
My rills joined hers, a stream
soaked into the pillow. Hours blurred to sleep.
Dawn: tears still carved our cheeks.
Boys wept too. Days blurred—
acceptance crept in, quiet.
Ten months: our gift. Leave granted,
family close. Diaries from eighteen—
when I first saw her.
Twenty-two volumes: sketches, unsent letters,
our life’s blueprint in ink.
Ten more notebooks: my final draft.
How I love her, respect her fire.
Zest of us—sorry to leave you solo.
Our boys’ joy, dreams deferred:
grandkids, firm soaring, gray hairs entwined.
Be brave. I’ll watch from above.
Thirty books, my parting arch:
“Read when I’m gone. Company eternal.”
Peace settled. They promised: care for her.
The crab claimed me, slow fade.
