Life is precious.

She sat next to him, as elegant as ever, in the warm sunlight and under blue skies overhead. She held his hand warmly, running the other hand across the spotted skin on his arm as he sat in his chair, slightly hunched, unable, quite, to respond verbally to the conversation that we had around him, at him, almost. But behind his pale, suddenly aged skin we saw him. My mother, father, and I, with our playful banter, and my father's delightful sarcastic humor, we saw his eyes crinkle, his body shake ever so slightly in silent laughter, and his dry lips part to reveal a yellowed smile. But he looked wonderful. 

My mother clung to his hand, the wonderful husband next-door that was always home when she was home for a moment between the obstacle course and race that made up each day when all four of us were home. We talked about the weather, their grandchildren, me at school, memories, my siblings...when his wife stood, his hand would linger in the air as he reached for her to remain close to him. 

After what felt to be far too short a time, we had to go. I have to tell you that it is an awkward, difficult, sensitive thing, to say goodbye preemptively. None of the three of us said "goodbye". We refused to do so. My mother said, "We'll see you again soon" and hugged him warmly, kissing his cheek and caressing his hand. My father, uncomfortable with the sudden wave of emotion that overcame him, fought a couple rare tears and held onto his hands and said "Take care, we'll be back in a couple weeks. See you then!" And I hugged him warmly, closely, and I felt his hands slowly, slowly rest on my back like the hands of the grandfather that I always felt he kind of was to us, and I heard him say as loud as he could, barely above a whisper "Good luck at school." I thanked him and assured him that I would wear the wool socks he gave me as a college going-away present 3 years ago this coming winter. He laughed silently again and I held his hands for a moment longer before my parents and I crossed back to our yard. 

My parents lingered in the driveway, speaking to a kind man who had been hired to care for our neighbor, but I couldn't find the strength to make small talk.

I passed quickly but discretely through the back door of our home and hurried upstairs to my room where I sat down. She was watching him disappear a little more each day, and it was empathy for what one must feel going through that experience and this painful manifestation of time and the delicate nature of life and humanity that left me sobbing that afternoon.