I have been preparing myself for the future, which try as I might I cannot control. I suspect I will be the type to visit once a year on some significant date, leave flowers, and talk for a bit about how things are going. If I know family members, I might provide updates on their lives. I would bring no one else as I have the potential to become teary eyed and the pride is strong.
Now you tell me that preparation is a futile endeavor. That try as I might to be in control of what I will do, I do not know what to expect nor how I will react. You tell me that I may go alone, but that others cared just as much, if not more, and would make the unhappiness easier to manage. You tell me death is the only road on which we are truly alone.