Just a thought.

It is as if the entire affair was a dream.  That whenever I wish it, I could pick up and see her.
When I ring her up on the phone, she would answer and regale me with her endless stories.
Though I had heard them over and over again, they always brought a laugh to my lips and joy
to my heart. 

Now, I find myself thinking of her more than when she was alive.  The urge to visit becomes
so strong that I have to tell myself, there isn't anyone there to visit any more. 

The last image I have of her, so frail, so still and quiet is not the one I want.  I want her
laughter, her swinging leg and her chain smoking voice going on and on, boring everyone
to tears.  Everyone, that is, but me.

I hate cancer.