Time, time, time, slipping through my fingers too fast. So fast. Two years, gone in what feels like the blink of an eye. And with every passing day, my father grows weaker. Oh, he’s tried to hide it from me. Succeeded for a long time, much to my dismay, much to my shame. But he was always just my dad. Maybe a little slower moving than everybody else, maybe a little grizzled, but he was always there, always up for a good cuddle or a story or play time. Always up for a visit from one of his favorite girls.

The other, of course, being my mom.

But lately, even I’ve started to notice the way he’s losing weight, the way he sways sometimes, unsteady on his feet. The way he looks at my mom like he wants to memorize every last second, every last ray of light that catches in her eyes and dances there, every last shadow that touches her soft bay coat, every last moment seared into his soul. Pieces of her to take with him. Memories to hold onto even after his body is gone.

I’m losing him, one day at a time. So I spend as much time at his side as I can, making memories of my own to hold onto, to keep with me when he’s not there anymore. Because I’m scared that’s going to be so, so soon. A little more scared with every day that passes. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready, but I’ve only had him for such a short time.

But I’m not the only one who wants a few more precious memories to cling to, so when I see the quiet desperation in my mom’s eyes I slip away and leave them their privacy, giving them a chance to hold each other, to love each other, to be together in whatever way they need, while they still can.

Sylva is too heavy, too haunted with the ghost of a man who isn’t even gone, but everywhere I turn are reminders of what I’m so heart-breakingly close to losing. So I leave my home behind for a little while, and head somewhere that’s full of happy memories that aren’t nearly so bittersweet. Luster’s home, or the one she lived in before she joined me in Sylva. Safe, cozy, tucked away from the world. A quiet place to cry where Dad won’t see me, where Mom won’t hear me and have to be strong for me, where no one can see me fall apart.

Just a little farther. Hold it together just a little longer. Don’t let anyone see you cry, don’t let them know how this slow goodbye feels like a knife lodged in your chest, slicing into you with every breath, every twist, every bright, cheery smile. Keep it together for one more step, and another, and another.

And I manage it, too. Somehow, even though sorrow’s implacable hands are wrapped around my throat in a death grip, even though my chest is heavy with preemptive grief, even though breathing feels impossible and my vision blurs with tears, I make it to the mouth of that familiar cave and duck my head inside before those tears start to fall.

If only just.

Quiet, so quiet, even now afraid someone will hear me while I pour my sorrow out on the cave floor at my feet, spilling like blood down my cheeks, my chest, landing in little splashes on the hard packed dirt. Too worn and weary even to stand, I curl up against the wall and slowly slide down, settling in a little heap tucked away just out of sight of the cave entrance.

Just a little break, just a few moments to give into the heartache that’s trying so desperately to drown me, and then I can go back and be their strong, brave girl again. Even if I haven’t been that little girl in far too long. For my dad, I’ll try, at least. And for my mom, who’s trying so hard to be strong enough and brave enough for both of us.