text: Just wrote this and wanted to share with someone. So here you go. Based on a true story... "Look at that head of hair! You look better!" I exclaimed gleefully. The man had been suffering from lung cancer. Stage IV, it didn't look good, but he kept fighting. It had been years since his diagnosis. The treatments appeared to have worked. His hair was growing back. "And you look worse, older even." A wry smile flashed across the man's face. "Sit, sit. Honey, could you grab us some tea?" "Of course dear," the man's wife headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "I'll let you two catch up." She smiled. She looked happier than I'd seen her in years. "It's so good to see you." I said. "It's good to see you too, son." The man said. Everything was right with the world. It seemed like the dark times brought on by the diagnosis were past. The family could finally move past it all. We had so much catching up to do, it felt like we talked for hours. And then, just like that, things changed in an instant. I saw the man's hair go white and fall out right before my eyes. "What? What's happening?" I asked. His wife brought our tea from the kitchen. "Well, his hair is falling out. Part of the treatment. It can be rough." Her face looked more worried by the second. "I'll call the nurse." I couldn't stop staring at the man. Here I was just joking about how well everything was going and suddenly I had this great despair wash over me. All I felt was hopelessness. "But you looked better, what's happening?" "I'm dying." "But that can't be! I just saw you, full head of hair, everything fine! I'm having trouble comprehending this!" I started to raise my voice. The man lifted a hand as if to calm me. "You saw what you wanted to see, but that is not the way of things." "What is the way of things then? I thought you were getting better? I thought the treatment was working? That is why I came, you know I don't do well around death." "And how would I know that?" The man asked. "But... but, you're getting better! Things are going to be normal again!" "Maybe, maybe not, but will this ever go away?" He asked, knowing full well the answer to his question. He moved toward the window overlooking the balcony and looked down toward the street below. His hands were animated. "These people... These people don't know. They'll never know." "Know what?" So unsure of what might be said that I was almost afraid of the answer. "What I see." He answered. "All that." He gestured towards the window as a bus rolled down the street below. "The bus dies in the same way we all do. We are the same. Parts break one by one, one piece at a time until you just can't fix her no more. Sometimes it goes all at once, but ultimately all that is left is silence; Is where it's been; who it's taken; what it's done. Some of it worthwile, but not enough. Never enough." He stared out the window contemplatively. "That's sad," I said, trying to put his words into a box which I could understand. "No it isn't." He snapped back. "Everything has a history. Everything has its place. Everything has its end... And almost always, things manage to live on past those ends. That's not sad, it's beautiful! The things I see... Like I said, these people will never know. That includes you. Not until the time is right, but by then it is already too late." I wanted to ask, "Too late for what?" But he had already started in, "Too late to truly live. Too late to actually appreciate what you have. Too late to break free from the shackles binding you every day. Too late to realize the beauty that I see. But... hold on." He gazed out the window. "It's so beautiful. They'll never know. And how can they? ...I didn't." He smiled at me. "I do now." "Dad?" I called to him, and suddenly I was awake.