I wish you would play “piano” on their tummies, just as you used to do with Michael and Harold.
I wish you would talk on and on for long stretches of time about your life, your opinions, your observations.
I wish I would have listened more patiently and attentively and recorded every word.
I wish your face would light up when we arrive at your house.
I wish your grandchildren brought you joy instead of irritation.
I wish you could still understand the complexities of humor and laugh at our jokes – and share your own stupid jokes and puns.
I wish – selfishly – that someone would find a cure for this horrid disease that has stolen you from us so that my husband will not suffer your fate and that of your own father, and that I may be spared the fate of your beloved wife of forty years, who is now sometimes a stranger to you.
I wish life were not so cruel.