But neither of us wanted to spend our last weeks together talking only about death, letting the dying become the entire content of our remaining days.

So we talked about Cecelia instead.

We talked about the nursery, and which wall the crib should go against, and the ridiculous number of tiny socks a person that small apparently required.

We talked, once, carefully, about what kind of father Mark wanted to be remembered as, and I wrote down what he said, though I did not tell him I was writing it down.

And on his stronger days, he would place his hand on my stomach and simply wait, patiently, for Cecelia to kick, and when she did his whole face would change.

Those moments became the most precious things I have ever held.