Time felt like it was slipping through my fingers, no matter how tightly I tried to hold on. Each day blurred into the next, and with every passing sunrise, your health declined just a little more—subtly at first, then all at once. I watched helplessly as the strength faded from your body, as if life itself was quietly withdrawing. Eventually, the reality became impossible to ignore. I found myself sitting in a quiet room with a funeral director, speaking your name in the past tense, making decisions I never imagined I’d have to face while you were still breathing.

We pored over catalogs and stone samples for hours, but nothing seemed quite enough—not for someone like you. We searched for something that felt worthy of your spirit; elegant, timeless, and impossibly gentle. Every detail mattered. The marble had to be polished to a quiet sheen, the edges smooth and soft to the touch—no harsh lines, no cold sterility. And in the center, we chose an engraving of your favorite flower. We knew we had to get it just right, not for appearances, but for the memory of you that lingers. Anything—absolutely anything—for my firefly.

Once everything was finally arranged—the headstone chosen, the service planned, the practicalities no one ever wants to think about—I made the decision to discharge you from hospice. It wasn’t an easy choice, but something in me said you deserved more than a sterile room and the quiet hum of medical machines. I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d want to spend your final moments surrounded by the people who loved you most. Home.

"Are you sure you want to see it?" I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper as I knelt in front of your wheelchair. My hands trembled slightly, not from cold, but from the weight of the moment. You were ready, or at least, more ready than I would ever be. Ready to see the place where you would one day rest.