Reveille

Things aren’t going your way again. You’re tired of your wheelchair, you say, and you want the brand new model that you saw on TV last night. Your dad keeps shaking his head, saying it’ll just be a waste of money and he’s almost successful in refusing—until you say those five hateful words again: “I’m going to die soon.”

I want to scream. I want to run to you, grab your shoulders and shake some sense into you. My 3rd grade teacher used to repeat over and over again: “If you think you’re going to lose, then you really will.” I want to shout those words to you right now, because you’ve obviously accepted the fact that you’re going to die. I haven’t yet, so please don’t give up. Stop saying those words. They’re starting to appear in my nightmares, torturing me, reminding me of how short my time with you is.