Terror is a sweet syrup in my throat
A soft chord in the dead of night
A whisper on the wind of the day that I'll die
He acts the same as ever, though of course you don't really know what he was like, ever. He looks fine, most days, but what do the dying look like? Oxygen tubes, ragged breathing, coughing up blood? That's what hospital dramas have taught you. He's skinny but healthy, from the outside you can't tell he's rotting from the inside out. Liver cirrhosis, they call it. From the Greek kirrhos "tawny," for the orange-yellow appearance of the diseased liver. Isn't that just disgusting? He's your father, and he's dying.
Terror isn't panic, a spit-second of your veins running cold, your heart stopping, the hair on your arms standing up as the goosebumps take over. Terror is insidious, a disease that winds its way through your bloodstream and lets you sleep peacefully at night. You dream and wake craving ice cream. Vanilla, maybe Cherry Garcia. You cook spaghetti for dinner and sit down with a book. The synopsis looked good. Terror is halfway through the book there's something. 'Grey-haired'. 'Glasses'. 'Freckles'. 'Satire'. A word, a phrase, and suddenly you remember. It hits you, blindingly, and you can't believe you ever forgot, even as you know forgetting is the only way to stay sane. He's dying, and you're terrified.
