Every time she says I can do something when she’s dead, I am tempted to ask if she can die sooner than later because the list of what I cannot do now is growing by leaps and bounds. You can take that painting down when I die. Until then, leave it. When I die you can move those chairs, until then, let them stay. You can clear away that stuff when I’m dead. Just leave it for now. I don't want to take that trip but you can go when I'm dead. Don’t move these things here. You can toss them all into the trash when I’m gone. God understands so I don’t feel but so bad for the thoughts that sometimes run through my head. I’m especially mindful though not to say them out loud. But I cannot make her understand that we are still here, and our choices should not be dependent on what a dead man once wanted for himself. But celebrating the here and now is suddenly foreign to her. When my father died, she too stopped living. It has taken the patience of Job to keep her pushing forward w