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Grandparents.

To become some nagging, irritating, know-it-all old man sitting beside you on a porch somewhere while we make fun of the youth and watch our great-grandchildren destroy our yard.

God, Vita.

I wanted that life.

I wanted all of it.

With you.

But baby, I can’t.

Death is going to take all of that from me.

But I will not let death take it from you too.

I’m dead, baby.

I’m not there.

And because I know you, because I know that heart and soul of yours will hold on to me with an iron grip, I’m leaving you.

“You what!?” I exclaim as I read on.

Yes.

Consider this a divorce.

Don’t get angry, Vita. You know I love you.

I will for as long as I breathe, and if God lets me, I’ll love you forever in heaven too.

But I love you too much to let the life we were supposed to have become the reason you don’t have the life you deserve to have.

So this is it.

We had a wonderful life together.

You were the best part of mine.

And because of you, I can die knowing I was loved more than any man has the right to ask for.

Keep me.

Keep our memories.

Keep our stupid jokes and our songs and every beautiful thing we had.

Talk about me.

Laugh when you remember me.

Cry when you need to.

I’ll always be a part of you, just like you’ll always be a part of me.

But let go of the life we were supposed to have.