Greg is sleeping a lot more. I am not. Hospice has been... Odd. You go to this place and wait to die. Or in my case, wait for someone else to die.
I hold Greg's hand and think of all the times he switched positions so he would be walking on the traffic side of the sidewalk. How he would insist I remain in the car so he could come around and open my car door. I look through a box and see familiar cards. I slowly realize they are every card and letter that I've written to him. Every. Singe. Card. God this is so painful. No one will ever love me the way Greg has.
Take him home. Give him back.