You have 30 days. 30 days to tell somebody you love them, to try and make up for every mean, hatueful, hurtful, or spiteful thing youv'e ever said to them or thought about them. 30 days to get the courage to play your violin for them without crying. To go into that room every day for however long it takes, not knowing who or what you may find- person, shell, or half of each.

The doctors said it could be as quick as 30 days. Actually, we were all told between now and Christmas. But I was there when they didn't think I could hear them, and they said it could be as quick as 30 days.

30 days. Longer than some lives. Not the life I'm worried about. His life has had years, many years, but not enough. He's just starting to get better, talking more, moving more. How can that exist in the same universe as so much pain?