Papa.

Today we got up and I dropped the boys off at Ampa's so I could go to kickboxing. Afterward we went next store to Grammie and Papa's. When I opened the door, the house was clean and warm like always, but there was no bright "Hello!" or "Who's there!". It was quiet, like no one was home.
We walked in and Grammie was at the counter with an uneaten bowl of oatmeal and a pink drink. When she saw Ethan she said, "Gimmie a big hug. I need a hug." She stretched out her arms and Ethan obliged.
Papa was in the bedroom. He's too weak now to get up, having decided on Thursday he's done; no more food, no more water, no more pills.
I saw him on Wednesday, in his bathrobe, sitting in the blue rocker. He looked thin, but good. Smiling, talking, engaging. And then today, three days later, he looked very much near death. His cheeks were sunken in and his eyes were watery and opaque when we went in to talk to him.
Under his white sheet he told Ethan he loved him, his big knuckley hand stretching out to touch his face. He told him he was a good boy and that he had a good brother. Ethan agreed. He told Papa he hoped he feel better soon.
On the way out I was teary and Ethan told me, "Don't be sad! Why are you sad?"
We've told him Papa has cancer, which I think he thinks means your skin falls off (Papa has very thin skin), and I even said one day a couple weeks back that Papa is going to die soon, to which Ethan said, "Why? "like when he wants something really bad and I say no.
"Whhhyyy?"
It's a season, death, and it's Papa's time. He's been a good Papa, a good friend. Especially to Ethan. I am not looking forward to telling him when he passes, not at all.