Twilight

When I sit down on the side of the bed, I know. He has pale blue eyes and a careworn face, and I know that I will not make it home for dinner. I speak slowly and say, “On the CT scan, there are multiple abnormal spots in your liver.” A pause, then: “It looks like the cancer has spread.”

His wife died several years ago, and their only son lives out of state, so for now it is just the 2 of us, talking quietly as the last of the late-afternoon sun filters through the blinds. For the moment, there is silence. My words hang between us, heavy in the air above the bed. I squint out at the orange sky and then back at him. “I'm really sorry,” I say, as I touch his hand.

He begins: “When I was growing up, there were a lot more farms around here. By the time I got home from the war and married my wife, this …