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  • "Sunrise," I think, looking through the window just past our toes. "Is it really so late? Can't we just sleep a little more?"

    But I can't.

    After several hours in bed and several hours fewer, sleeping, I am awake and ready to get back to my life, whatever that is, and I want to cry.

    I don't want to cry.

    If I cry, I will wake the people beside me and scare the life out of them because they won't understand what I can barely comprehend. I think that maybe I'm just so happy I'm sad or so sad that I'm happy like water so hot that it feels cold. I can't tell the difference; I just don't want this moment to end. Not now. Not ever.

    I am sharing a very large bed in a hotel room with my best friend from college and his tween daughter. His wife (and her mother) is asleep on the couch past our feet. I can hear her breathing. I can hear everyone breathing and the sound makes me happy.

    The sun cannot rise because I don't want to wake up any more than I have. I don't want to roll out of this bed with more than enough space and not enough covers, sleep talking, an occasional kick or slap of restless limbs, and heavy breathing. This bed means the world to me.

    In just a few minutes, my friend will get up for his injection, and I will get up to take an immunosuppressant. Both of us will feel like crap for the rest of the day, the week, and our lives, but his life is forecast to be so much shorter than mine. He's already lived longer than others with his type of cancer. I think that maybe he feels like he's living on borrowed time, but he is living. That can't stop. He can't stop because none of us know how to do this without him.

    I cannot do this without him.

    In just a few minutes, we will roll out of bed anyway. We will take our meds and take our showers. We will pull ourselves together and I will squeeze into a car between a pair of car seats on the way to brunch with even more friends. We will eat too much, talk too much, and leave things unsaid.

    I don't want to think or to talk or to put on my grownup clothes and get back to my life. I want to stay here, in this moment, in this bed, forever so I stretch just a little, wiggle my toes, and swallow my sobs as I watch the sun rise through the curtains, window, and tears.
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