WARNING: On the subject of family, I can get a bit sappy or bitchy--this is the former. I wrote this shortly after the first anniversary of my father-in-law's passing from leukemia, and when I was 6 mos pregnant with his much-anticipated and awaited only granddaughter, whom he'll never meet. Grab some tissues...

It envelops him, a black gauzy stillness. He shakes, stiffens, falls silent as the flow begins again in his veins. The blackness crept, insidious and toxic, into his heart, his lungs, the marrow of his bones, all before he could realize his own weakness. It multiplied quietly, the shadows filling his soul.

He remembers before--before he was a man, but a boy, before he loved. He remembered when he loved her, when she bore him a son, then another--the trials and tribulaitons of those first few weeks. The boys growing up, now men, surrounded by their sons.

He wonders how long it will take for the the blackeness to claim him, make him incomplete, make him gone. Would she remember the man she loved, or the shell he'd become? Would his grandsons hear his voice after he'd gone from them? Would his sons remember his advice and the long hours they'd spent together?

He hears them talking quietly, earnestly, reverently. A hand touches his foor, his hand. The long, soft fingers startle him; it's as though he's forgotten what being touched feels like. She whispers--but it's not his beloved. Her voice is soft and low, soothing and melodic; a marked contrast to her usual boisterous, happy chatter. She kissed his head, smoothing the freshly shorn scalp, comforting warmth radiating from her palm.

She said nothing, simply hums under her breath snatches of songs sung in a long-dead language. She adjusted his blankets, checked the blinds, and kissed his head once again. He can tell she's trying hard not to cry, and he is comforted.

They'll remember.