And through it all there is still hope.

What's up with that?

I can't quite pin it down. I laid in bed for most of the night, staring at whatever my head was pointed at, trying to figure just what it was that was keeping this hope alive. More than that even, I spent a good chunk of time trying to see what it was I'm hoping for.

I mean, I've got everything I ever asked for. I've kept the pain, as much as possible, pointed squarely at me. Our lives have finally become separated to where I no longer live in fear of my phone. There are no more inane messages, spaced weeks apart, that seemed to serve no purpose other than to remind me of what I was missing. There are no expectations. No disappointment.

I've fucking got it made!

Yet through all that there is still hope. Hope for failure? Because that's the only possibility left open? Because that would serve to provide the closure that was sought, yet denied, in the Spring?

Sounds pretty selfish to me. I don't think that's what I'm hoping for.

Hope for happiness? For love eternal? For sitting together on a porch watching our grandkids play?

Not bloody likely. I gave up hoping for those things before I even started.

I think what I'm hoping for just cannot be put into words. At least not by me, but I'll try.

A man, going blind, hopes to see one final sunrise. A dying man hopes to take one last breath.

I hope for two more seconds. Two seconds, that's what it took last time. Those two seconds that elapsed between when she walked in the door and when I saw the horrible truth about what was inside me - those two seconds were bliss.

I just want two more seconds. I believe that I'll be destroyed in those two seconds, but it would be worth it.

Two seconds. That's what I hope for.