Journey, a fix-it man from Kingston who had come into my home to repair my roof and stayed to reconstruct my soul. Four years three months and two days to be exact. The afternoon the words rolled off of my doctor's tongue and dropped down to the floor, I was thirty-two years old.I say the words dropped down to the floor because that's where my eyes went right after he told me. My eyes left his mouth and went straight to the floor and so that's where I figured the words must have gone too.Doctor Tate allowed me to sit there for a moment, to sit there and stare at the words on the floor. I remember him handing me a tissue even though there were no tears. I remember him touching my shoulder, even though there was medication and new developments everyday that could prolong my life.If that was the case, I thought, why did he sound so sad?An hour passed before I was able to lift my eyes from the floor, another fifteen minutes before I could stand. Doctor Tate had been nice enough not to hurry me, or ask me to stare at the floor in the waiting area.
