I don't know how much time I have. Nobody does, really. But I think about it more than most people. I have two kids. Maya draws rainbows and calls me Papa. Matt asks questions faster than I can answer them. And my wife Yana holds everything together in a way I could never repay.
One night I was sitting at my desk after they'd gone to sleep, and the thought hit me in a way it hadn't before: if I die, my daughter won't remember my voice. She's too young. She'll see photos. She'll hear stories from her mom. But she won't remember how I said her name. She won't remember the silly voices I did at bedtime. She won't remember me calling her Donut.
Matt won't have anyone to ask about what it means to be a good man. Not from me. Not in my words. Not in my voice.
And my wife will carry all of it the grief, the kids, the house, the everything alone. And she won't be able to hear me say I love you anymore.
