Today is his second Labor Day since that heart attack. Instead of weighing 160, he weighs 100 pounds. He's not left his bed in a week; he doesn't eat; drinks little. He exists at this point; he doesn't live.
Your mother's worrying herself sick, trying to do something, anything, where nothing can be done.
You were at Rebecca's yesterday sorting through hundreds of photos of him, your mother, your brother, you. We put 118 of them in a slide show for the funeral.
You wrote this two years ago: