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Something I regret is that we didn't talk more about death when you were alive. Sure, every once in a while we'd argue at the breakfast table on Saturday morning and you'd say, "When I'm gone...." But that never seemed real, and I always changed the subject.

I knew you thought about these things. When you tried showing me how to take care of my money, that was your way of preparing me. You'd also made a will, and I knew you'd planned ways to take care of mom, Stephen and me.

But beyond these things, I wish I'd said something like, When the time comes, if there's still a chance, I want you to fight with all you've got, and mom and Stephen and I will be fighting here with you. But if at that time, there's not a chance left and you know it, then I want you to know that it's okay to let go, that guh-guh and I will take care of mom and each other.

I hope you weren't scared. You'll never know how many times I've thought of that moment. Or maybe you do. Did you know "expire" comes from the Latin "to breathe out"?

On this rainy day in September, almost six months to the day, for some reason I'm thinking how I'll never know what kind of old man you would have become, what kind of habits you would have developed, whether there's some food you would have started liking or some TV show you would have started watching. And in a strange way, I wonder if I'll ever change in your mind too, if you've stopped seeing me and only remember me from the last time we saw each other. Will you recognize me the next time?