I am dying. And there is no cure.
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One day you will look for me and I will be gone.
What have I left behind?
What is my legacy?
My son is three. Will he even remember me?
Will my daughter remember we have the same long fingers?
I am dying. And there isn't anything I can do.
Did I love enough?
Did I live enough?
How can you make up for 30 years in one year?
Do I even have a year?
Has my life been consumed with regrets?
I am dying. And instead of spending these precious moments with my children, I am typing.
Will they think I loved writing more then them?
Will they think of me with fond memories or with bitter thoughts?
I think I have been a good mother. A good wife.
Twenty years from now will my husband be married to the love of his life? That was supposed to me.
I am dying.
What else can I say?
What would you say? What would you do if you knew you only had a year to live?
Think about it. I mean right now. While you are still alive.
Tomorrow isn't promised. We barely even have today.
Thank God I have my writing to release all my inhibitions and conquer all my fears.