“Top of the morning,” I may never say again. Paul is dieing, in a morphine haze he fights his final executioner, a battle he knows he is doomed to lose. Soon I will see him an image I fear will burn into my memory forever, I am not sure I am ready for this. Wednesday I face him, how will I part the morphine haze and touch him? Will I even be able to do this? Will a smile of understanding open a portal? Perhaps a tactile touch of the hand along with a, long, long, understanding gaze part the haze? I am not sure why I ponder these pointless scenarios in my mind? Is this how one grieves? Tears run down my face as I ponder and write this. The lose seems so immeasurable, how do you say farewell and close the door on half of your life? How? Do you do that! Does religion and theology, hold the answer and help you close the door? I see no solace in religion or dogma, I fear we all eventually fumble for the door, and close it ever so gently.