Bertie’s six months to live was pushed up. She would not last a month.

 Lying on her queen-sized bed, contraptions everywhere, she was tiny and frail. Scandinavian as the rest of her family, Bertie was once big and blonde. With triumphant laughter, she smiled wide, drank merriment and always acted thrilled to see me.

 Grey now, she sank deep in bed. Hugging her, I could break her.

 Bertie asked if I was healthy. I said yes but remembered the cold I’d been fighting. Moving away, I feared accelerating her illness. I’d never seen cancer that strong, dying all over the walls.